


quell your rage for just a moment, darling

by Azaphod (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Hawke/Varric, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Saarebas!Inquisitor, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Trans Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, magic issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Azaphod
Summary: a helmed devil stalks across the rocky shore of the storm's coast and greets the iron bull as the herald of andraste, despite looking like some sort of unholy reckoning sent from the beyond.their meeting goesterribly.the herald is hiding something and the iron bull is a spy; he's going to do his job.(on indefinite hiatus)
Relationships: Inquisitor/Iron Bull, Male Inquisitor/Iron Bull
Comments: 29
Kudos: 74





	1. helmed devil

when iron bull’s people-- _spies_ \--warned him of the herald of andraste’s demeanor, he had taken it into consideration, but hadn’t let it sway him from setting up a meeting via krem. even if they were a tal-vashoth, the inquisition is where he needed to be. 

so meeting the herald went terribly. 

the holier then thou herald met them on the beach; on a very, very bad day, even for the storms’ coast. the sea turned and raged at their backs as they met templars from the front, even the sounds of battle were muted by the scream and crash of waves. 

naz, the herald, looked less like a salvation sent by the maker, and more like an unholy reckoning. he donned heavy, thick armor, his form larger then life. his helm covered his entire face, only opening at the top in two holes to let his horns out, which curved wickedly up and out. they were smeared in a red paint-like substance, it didn’t look like vitaar to bull. a great battle axe was slung over his shoulder, grinding into the metal pauldron.

all in all, if the herald was aiming for intimidation, he was succeeding with flying colors.

krem raced across the beach to beat the herald to bull first, and offered nothing but raised eyebrows and an apologetic expression, so sorry boss, this was gonna be complicated. damn him.

talking with the herald was akin to trying to have tea with a particularly pissed off bear high on shrooms. difficult, to say the least. bull tried all his moves, smiled and turned on the charm, and when that hadn’t worked, he switched to business mode. he laid down his services, the chargers’ were top notch, something the inquisition could use.

naz barely spoke a word when bull admitted his connection to the qunari, didn’t even bat an eye. naz’s hand, which never left the hilt of that mighty battle axe, flexed. 

the herald had considered him, and while his helmet hid his eyes, bull could feel them burning into him the entire time. he was _angry_ , bull realized. 

there was a minor conflict; naz stalked off, followed closely by people of his own. a mage woman and two warriors, one with a sad look about him, the other angry and full of grief. they were far enough away that bull couldn’t hear them over the seething storm above them, but bull could see the sharp, tense line of the herald, the way he gestured in the unforgiving air. he could also see the frustrated look on the seeker’s face, the way she was shouting right back at naz. they didn’t seem to be agreeing.

naz had stomped back over to bull, snarled a couple threats and invited him into the inquisition. 

because in the end, how could he refuse? they were desperate for help. 

iron bull whistled, low and let out a bated breath. they got the job. time to get the ball moving, to navigate these new, treacherous waters.

* * *

haven was _quaint_ , unassuming. they had a small force of people, sure. and with the herald returning from the hinterlands, he had brought horses and other mounts. they would have to get stronger. 

haven was _small_ , and as such, iron bull noticed things. the comings and goings of the common folk, their frantic steps against the cobblestones, crunching in the snow, trying to keep up with this new military force. he kept a closer eye on the people naz surrounded himself with. 

blackwall, the sad warrior from the beach, was among the herald's chosen friends. the herald and him drank together, bantered easily, pessimistically. if they started in the evening, they would go until the dawn, and it was like watching two black holes collapsing next to each other. bull kept away when they went in like that, it was uncomfortable to bear witness to.

at first, bull thought that ended the very short list of people naz would confide in, or at least attempt to be pleasant with. but then sera joined them, a punchshot and loud girl. bull almost thought the herald would lose his mind around her, but of course they got along like birds of a feather. they spent hours slinging foul tempered words at each other, laughing nastily into the night. they caused a ruckus, no one had really expected the prickly herald to start up petty pranks with the help of the elf girl, they were a horrifying storm of chaotic energy together. 

it was apparent that naz simply did not like bull, after a few attempts at camaraderie. 

there was also another curious matter. 

it was pretty impossible to keep a low profile around haven, especially if you were the herald of andraste. so when the herald wooed and seduced the locals, bull got to watch him bring them all back to his room, all the way across from the inn. it was strange, seeing him play at charming, his voice pitched low, inviting. crowding into the space of his latest target of carnal affections. it wasn’t often he’d have someone, most of the humans around were terrified of naz, and for good reason. but it made _bull wonder things_.

through all of that; socializing, diplomating, taking charge, fucking, _drinking himself stupid_ \--the helmet stayed on. 

there had to be something going on there, afterall, it wasn’t like the thing looked very comfortable to be sitting in day in and day out. bull had even tried to get information out of cassandra, but she was nearly as prickly as their herald. apparently naz had silenced her, or she was just a good person who didn’t spill personal details to just anyone. 

varric had joked once that the tal vashoth must have been pretty ugly under all that armor, to want the helmet on all day, everyday. bull could tell he was unsettled by it too, but the dwarf was trying to keep things light.

naz doesn’t even really give bull a chance to ask about it. the herald is too busy hammering him with his own questions, he asks about everything; the qun, the chargers, bull’s life, bull’s sex life. it’s less curious, and more blatant interrogation. naz needled and wormed his way through bull’s past and present, looking for a sign of… something. 

* * *

he watches naz now, as he pretends bull doesn’t exist while he tends to the livestock, brushing his gloved hands through the manes of ferelden horses. master dennet is looking in from a short distance, close enough to interfere if the herald tries to murder his horses, and far enough that he can’t be willingly roped into conversation. 

two sets of eyes burn holes into the back of naz’s head, but it’s to bull he turns to. bull can’t help but think dennet won.

“if you have a query, better to ask it now before it eats a hole into your brain,” naz snaps. “if not, go be useful somewhere else.”

he wonders what it would take for naz to just speak without biting, the man needed a muzzle. 

and that was a thought.

“boss?” iron bull says, playing dumb for a moment to rile naz up, lets him draw a breath to snarl something mean from deep in his lungs before continuing. and asks, because well, naz decided to poke the elephant in the figurative room with a hot poker; “the helmet, it something special to you?”

bull doesn’t try to mince words much around naz--usually, he didn’t appreciate the way people dance around him. but that doesn’t stop bull from carefully choosing them here, there’s something touchy under the surface, the last thing bull wants is to disturb this slumbering beast with an ill placed phrase. 

naz tilts his head softly to the side, an innocent gesture that has the hairs on the back of bull’s neck prickling. he slowly shifts--changes his posture, the raw confidence fades, until he’s more nervous, shy. 

“its..” pause, stop, a stutter? “it’s to hide. humans, you know? they got at me as a kid, roughed me up for being weird, like a demon they said. burned my face something fierce, left a great big scar, almost took my eye with it, would have been looking like you, nearly.” 

he laughs, and _drips_ with insecurity. 

“so i keep it on all the time now, it’s good to scare people with, makes the diplomats nervous, keeps the commander on his toes, andraste knows he’s scared of me. no one needs to see..this,” he gestures with a fluid motion to where his face would be, “you know?”

he actually has a hitch to his voice. 

“you are just,” bull shakes his head in pure disbelief, “so full of shit, boss.”

and boom, naz snaps back into shape from where this facade had bled out of him. posture harsh, fake insecurities vanishing as quickly as the sun on a good day in haven. he barks a laugh that’s genuine and near grinding on the ears, like he told a particularly seedy joke. the manipulative lilt to his voice is gone when he speaks again. 

“it's a _helmet_ , iron bull.” 

and he walks away.

bull watches him go all the way to the castle, wheels turning in his head. the air feels lighter, like this time naz wasn’t trying to be invasive or cruel, _was that actually supposed to be a joke?_

he looks over at master dennet, who had been silently watching the exchange with a dumbfounded look, and now glances at bull with the indescribable expression of someone who doesn’t know what they had just seen and wasn't paid well enough to care. he snaps out of it with a short confused noise and shrugs. _that’s just the herald,_ the horse master says, wordlessly. 

that’s just the herald. bull has to agree.


	2. mages in glass houses shouldn't throw fireballs

the helmet, and the incident with the herald remains in the back of bull’s mind. later he learns that naz did nearly the same thing to cassandra, had lied straight to her face with zero hesitation. bull doesn’t know whether or not it’s a good thing it’s not a special case just for him. 

afterwards naz treats him differently, the open hostility lessens, and now whenever bull enters the same room as him, naz doesn’t tense up like he just watched a fade demon walk through the front door. bull vaguely feels like he passed some kind of hazing, but he isn’t going to complain when naz isn’t walking and talking with a huge stick up his ass around him.

bull still has questions, an itching need to piece together the puzzle of their herald. but he’s willing to take this slow pace, he knows better then to rush naz. he lays it to rest for now anyways, as they have a much bigger fish to fry. in this case, the rebel mages. 

bull was against meeting them, not that it mattered, naz wouldn’t hear his opinion on it nor any other opinions from the inner circle. he had set the mission out with the same firm hand as always. he was always something to be seen like this; as he gave orders and helped direct leliana’s spies. the raw confidence pushing him through the motions. naz gave them all a run down of the plan, and if his hands shook for just a moment, the only one that noticed was iron bull. 

another question for another time.

* * *

nothing goes as planned. he watched felix kneel over in the inn, and he’s there when they meet the tevinter mage, who offered his help, and when they plan to spring an ambush against the venatori trap, iron bull watches naz negotiate, in the lightest of terms. 

_“the inquisition needs mages to close the breach, and i have them. so, what shall you offer in exchange?”_

naz is not against granting his people dignity, so long as they prove to him that they deserve to keep it. he treats others as worthy opponents, really, he expects them to talk back, to fight him. those who cower, flounder, or worse, try to appease him, will sooner find themselves on the wrong side of his foul temper. 

there’s a new frothing fury simmering under the surface of naz, he is dripping in it. he stands before alexius as he prattles on and on, his posture stiff. his stance with the mages had been made clear to everyone who would bend an ear to him, he would be taking them as allies, and if they refused, he’d take them anyway. damn the rest, to a certain templar commander’s dismay. 

his talk with alexius is a joke, like he’s barely listening to the cultist, or his demands. not when the man’s desperation is so clearly written on his face, his fear thick in the air. 

bull can _feel_ the vicious smile on naz’s face, helmet be damned. 

_“nothing.”_

sera’s delighted crow is muffled by blackwall elbowing her in the gut. 

alexius jerks--an amulet gleams. the tevinter mage lashes out and naz follows suit. chaos erupts around them for a split second.

and then they’re _gone._

bull blinks, then panics. cool and familiar dread, bringing chills down his spine. _how do you protect someone who vanishes into thin air? is he even alive?_

he feels the moment the venatori cultists startle, and reaches for his weapon. he can see sera in the corner of his one good eye drawing arrows, still shrilly shouting for naz as if he’d just appear--

and he does.

he looks like _shit._

dorian staggers next to him, and naz falls, crumples to his knees. for just a moment, then he heaves up and looks down upon an even more haggard appearing alexius, who looks distraught. 

naz is covered in blood and ichorous bile that bull’s seen fall from the fade rifts and occasionally a demon’s body. his helm is dented and scratched and he’s bleeding worryingly from one side. but he stands regardless, the line of his shoulders rising righteously, his whole body drawn tight like a bowstring as he readies a blow from his battle axe should the venatori even think of trying anything. itching for an _excuse._

alexius just snivels, broken. 

“you’ll have to do better then that,” dorian says cheerfully.

* * *

they take the mages home to haven, prepare to close the breach. 

naz doesn’t look good, after the fight with alexius. dorian had mentioned things, here and there about the alternate reality they had visited. the horrors and the lyrium, magic gone dreadfully wrong--as it always does. the broken versions of themselves, bull did not like hearing that, to think of himself overcome with the red, pulsing lyrium was terrifying in itself. naz had croaked a laugh at that when bull said as much, as they recounted the mission to the rest of the party. 

naz had stared at bull the entire night when they returned, and drank himself into oblivion.

* * *

naz does not do idling, he is a person of _action._ he hovers around haven, still wounded from the fade demons that crept through rifts in the alternate world. it’s been requested that he rest, no fighting, no crazy adventures while he heals. when he floats by varric’s little campfire, bull watches with a frown.

the dwarf looks concerned himself, but he’s trying not to show it, he’s trying to not get attached again, after everything with hawke. he pats naz on the arm empathically, clearly trying to convince him to rest, or _something_ , other then standing in the cold all day while they wait for the mages, and naz, to gather their strength. 

so naz stomps off in a huff, and doesn’t return for a few too many hours. cassandra nearly has a heart attack searching for him and all but drags him back, covered in snow. he had been trying to hunt the goats in the valley. he kicked and grumbled the whole way back, and he and cassandra had an argument that almost came to blows before naz backed down, retreating for his room.

* * *

it’s three days later, and naz hasn’t improved, bull can tell. he knows because the man leans into him at the inn, heady with drink. 

“want tooooo,” naz cuts himself off to laugh, he’s rarely a happy drunk, “want to come back to m’ room? house? i ‘fink it’s an’ house, s’real small though.”

he pinches two fingers together to show.

bull has gotten this proposition too many times to count, to see and hear it coming from the herald, from _naz_ , is different. 

for one, naz is in soft furs and lighter armor today, a desperate request from the healers in haven, after they had to fight him out of his many plated heavy metals the first dozen times. they simply asked--begged--him to stay in leathers while he was in the safety of haven. but this meant bull could actually see the curves of his body now, the plush and muscles of him all together forming a rather attractive body. one that was very openly wanting him right now, pressed against his side as naz purrs drunkenly by his ear. 

the stupid helm is the same, hiding his face from sight. 

“go sleep, boss.” bull rumbles. he doesn’t move to push naz off of him, though. 

naz lets out a dramatic, drawn out groan. 

“you’re literally, no fun, at alll, _iron bull_.” the last bit, his name, is bitten out as usual. but tone and implication changes it, the sting feels different this time around.

"watched you y'know, watched you in the other place. not right, that one, too red and reddy, bloody, blood. you gave up on everythin'. wass the point, right? s'what you said. s'wrong, _the wrong you._ don't do that." 

naz slaps bull's arm lightly for emphasis. leaves his hand on him there, flexing and trembling. 

naz doesn’t pull away for a long, long moment. when he does its with a breathy huff, and he turns to survey the inn around them, which is joyously packed with new mages and locals. bull can see the gears turning in his head as he steps into the fray, the drunken sway of his gait has lessened considerably since he walked up to bull. naz selects a target in minutes--a nice enough looking human--and has them out the door in less. 

iron bull shrugs to no one, that’s not his business. he's too caught up on naz's words; _don't do that._

he ignores the way krem is staring incredulously at him from across the room, and gets another drink.


	3. oh, the inherent eroticism of sparring

bull has taken to watching the herald spar. he’s been keeping his eye on the man, tracking his movements since he’d been hired and knowing how he fought could be important should things tip sideways later. he doesn’t try to be subtle, stands in the muddy, slick field as naz lashes out furiously with the commander, who looks dazed but is holding his own.

naz fights like he speaks; with the intent for lethal wounds, with _venom_. he swings wide at his commander, and he’s using a lighter, dull axe this time, but the blow staggers cullen all the same. naz pushes close, crowds against his enemy. it’s a move that nearly all the inner circle _hates_ , when he just, _stands_ there and lets his foes wail out on him until he sees the perfect chance for a retaliation. 

bull notes his footwork is perfect as he moves in the mud, turning it to a slurry of slush as it mixes with snow. cullen has landed a few blows against him, and naz is panting as he lunges against the commander, sweeping his legs under the slighter human. cullen tries to remain balanced, but it’s a matter of pure strength at this point, and naz beats him in that regard. he hits the ground with a pained wheeze. 

iron bull lets out a whistle as naz dives to wrestle him further into the ground. even as he’s won, he’s clearly just trying to rub it in.

the commander staggers away, after a moment of struggling to his feet beside the herald, he’s obviously done humoring naz for the day. naz is still breathing heavily, stretching his shoulders in the middle of the ring they made just for sparring. he moves restlessly, twitching with energy. 

bull waits. 

“iron bull, join me.” naz calls, it’s an order, not a request. 

bull grins. selects a long, completely dulled sword from the rack before he goes to him. twirls it and tests the balance, getting used to its weight. naz waits for him calmly, catching his breath, more likely. bull’s never fought him before, and he’s a little disappointed he’s going to have to go easier on him because of his still recovering injury. they have to close the breach soon, it would be extremely awkward to delay stopping the end of the world because iron bull broke the herald of andraste. 

“best of three?” bull asks, taking position across from naz. 

“no, just one, i think.” naz breathes, and the sudden tensing of him is all bull gets as a warning. 

for a moment they’re just a ring of clashing metal, fast and loud. naz jams the blunt head of his axe under bull’s chin and bull replies with a hard _thwack_ against his leg as they pull apart. they circle each other, _clash clang_ , and repeat. 

bull keeps his strikes light, takes whatever naz throws at him with grace. he can feel naz getting frustrated, his swings are fast and he aims to hurt the most rather then to win. he starts fighting dirtier; kicking for between bull’s legs, feinting to bull’s blind side more, trying to egg him on into fighting harder.

naz swings close to him, and brings down his axe on bull’s arm with a brutal crack that has bull wondering if he just broke a bone. the pain radiates heavily, and red starts to creep up in bull’s vision even as he tries to wrestle it under control.

“oh, _come on bull-_ ” naz snarls right in bull’s face. he’s far too close, he’s left himself completely open. 

bull tackles him, and naz releases a punched out gasp of shock as bull knocks the wind from his lungs. he feels the parallel of the fight between cullen and naz earlier in the way he wrestles to keep him down, and naz clearly feels it too by the way he fights back. they scramble in the dirt, the weapons discarded, just pushing and pulling with fists and feet. naz is hissing and spitting mad, _livid_ and pinned under bull soundly. he slams his helmet against bull’s head and shoulders, it hurts but it isn’t enough to stun him. bull wonders if naz would be biting if it wasn’t in the way.

then naz freezes after a particularly harsh jerk, and lets out a soft pained gasp, flinching. and _oh shit, he fucked up._ bull slackens his grip by a sliver, glancing down at the herald’s leather covered side, looking for red. 

with a sudden _surprising_ show of force, naz lashes out violently, twists and screams out of bull’s grasp until it’s him on top, straddling just above his hips. he isn’t a small man, and he holds his own as he tries to pin bull down, and bull lets him. one hand keeping him against the ground, his legs squeezed vice tight around him. the other cups his injured side like an afterthought. as naz pants down at him. he’s shaking, using bull’s mass for balance. 

“you good, boss?” bull thinks to ask, pushing past naz’s grasp to run his hand along the leather armor of his side, where the healing injury sits, irritated. his other hand comes up to grip naz’s waist to steady him as he sways. 

he can feel naz shiver minutely, files it away for further consideration. 

“i... win.” naz murmurs, he’s losing his balance slowly, drooping onto bull’s chest as he comes down from the adrenaline rush. 

“alright, naz.” iron bull snorts, pats his flank like he's a dog, _good boy_. “better get that looked at, the seeker will kill you if it reopened.” _again_.

he hefts naz up with him as he stands, steadies him with a hand on his back when he’s slow to detangle from bull’s body. naz stays within bull’s orbit, helmet tilted up at him. he sways in place, just, considering him. he searches bull for something, a tell in his body language or his face. bull holds his gaze, or where he thinks his gaze reaches him, he doesn’t know what he’s trying to prove to him but he’s played all his cards on the beach when they first met.

naz shakes his head, starts to walk off, with a slight limp in his gait. “fuck off, bull.” he shoots over his shoulder as he goes. 

he still limps in the direction of the healers.


	4. dies, died, will die

the herald hadn’t reopened his wound, bull learns later. when they’re gathered for the next big move, closing the breach, hopefully for good now. the rebel mages flank their forces, elves and humans, little wizards with their sticks and glowing hands. iron bull grumbles uncomfortably. 

the sky above _rumbles_ back at them, swirling a sickly green. naz looks better then usual, back in his plates of heavy armor. his hand sparks and crackles, throwing off rays of light that catch on the harsh edges of his battle axe. cassandra stands at his side, along with solas, the sneaky elven mage. they don’t get along well; naz and solas, but the elf is instructing him as naz raises a steady arm to the heavens, glowing like a beacon. 

it’s dramatic, and feels too easy when it’s over. looking up at the healed sky, as they celebrate a victory. people sing and dance in haven tonight, they deserved this night of peace. bull joins the others, drinks with them, laughing as sera falls out of her chair for the hundredth time. the sky disagrees with this lighthearted merriment, it rumbles louder, with the threat of storms. 

naz isn’t with them, he sits outside the inn, watching the sky.

the rolling growl gets too loud, though. it separates from the thunder, until it’s the marching of thousands of feet, a horn’s shrill shout. there is an unknown force, looming at the mountains edge, waiting. 

naz is already down to the gates of haven by the time half of them leave the inn. he hurls the doors open, and a _boy_ stumbles in, his hat nearly flies off.

 _“the templars come to kill you.”_

the herald looks toward the approaching force, the templars. the commander splutters incredulously beside him, shouts his anger at them, the _disappointment_ in his eyes is heavy. 

_“--went to the elder one, you know him, he knows you. you took his mages--”_

the boy points, far, far off at the mountain. at this elder one. bull can barely see anything at that distance, just a smudge of dark red, the hinting flare of red lyrium. _this is not good._

_“--he’s very angry that you took his mages.”_

they fight back. slashing and snarling back at the templars when they come, the hum of the lyrium is loud in the air, sings with it. they try to slow the tides of them, trebuchets whistling through the night sky, crashing to earth and taking dozens of templars with them. it's not enough. 

they have a _dragon_.

* * *

“now that,” naz pants, when they are safely-- _not very safe at all, actually_ \--back inside the chantry as the templars rage on outside, tearing haven asunder. naz has minaeve slung over one shoulder, and he sets her down gently, to be tended to by the few surviving healers still inside. “is not _fair_.” he finishes.

dorian spares him a hysterical bark of laughter, though he clearly doesn’t find it very funny. 

cullen is getting more frustrated and frantic by the second, and iron bull doesn’t like where the conversation is going, cullen’s already thought of a last blaze of glory for them. the chancellor, thankfully interrupts him, speaks of a path to escape, a way to save the people here in haven, before it’s too late. naz is stock still besides the drumming of his fingers over his axe’s hilt. 

_“they only want the herald.”_

bull really doesn’t like where this is going. not as naz starts to disengage from the group, when he speaks with a _finality_ in his voice. 

“get everyone out of haven,” naz says, cullen looks torn briefly, but he nods in understanding, he’s never been _fond_ of naz, anyways. 

and naz actually moves to leave, _alone, the stupid bastard-_

“now hang the fuck on there, _herald_.” varric speaks up, before bull can string anything concise together, “i’m coming with you, andraste knows you’ll need help.” and blackwall sidles up beside varric, quiet but making his position known. 

iron bull steps in close to naz, gives him a grin. this is a suicide mission, at best. and naz hesitates as they join his side, but for once, he doesn’t stop to argue with them. sera and dorian clearly want to help as well, but the seeker ushers them away as the heavy doors close behind them. 

naz is silent as he steps out into the night, the scream of the templars is instantly too loud and disorienting.

* * *

they take off for the trebuchets again, round and round they go, turning toward the mountain side, _bury them in an icy tomb_. bull and blackwall keep them at bay as the herald heaves the wheel, varric shooting down the feral templars from a distance. the battle is vicious, the templars fight without any self regard, they just run in screaming for the herald. bull batters them aside, shouts loudly with the bloodlust, holds the adrenaline tight in his chest to keep the fear away. 

they’re so close, when huge, monstrous templars--barely humanoid anymore, lumber in with roars. naz abandons the trebuchet to help, screams as he flings himself forward. they down the first, and the second one whips a huge red crystalline arm at them, it connects with naz and bull, sending them flying. 

naz shouts, cut off. he rises fast and with a spin, shatters the templar monster into pieces. his armor is shredded, like it was flimsy leather and not thick metal. and bull can see his face. because his helmet, already strained and damaged since the fight with alexius, has shattered around his ears like glass from the blow. 

“ _get up!_ ” naz shouts, the angry lilt of his voice finally visible on the plains of his face, his heavy brows knit together furiously. 

bull isn’t that close to him, the blow from the templar had thrown him a good distance away, but he can see the dark hair, cropped short at the sides, long at the top, tangled from the fray. he’s bleeding from the temples, panting and shouting to the others. then he turns, bares sharp teeth at bull, snapping him out of it. 

naz and blackwall turn the machine, and it finally locks in place. just as the dragon appears. it’s scream pierces the air, the sound rattling around in bull’s head, and he stumbles, stunned into place. then the sky lights up, like a setting sun, bathing them in hot, orange fire. it’s going to hit them, bull thinks, stupidly.

“ _MOVE!_ ” naz roars, thrusts an arm in their direction,

and an explosion of force energy follows, throws them all backwards, away from naz. it doesn’t hurt, but the impact with the ground does, bull can feel things burying into his back painfully, as he hits a snowbank. blackwall and varric crash five feet behind him, they have enough sense to struggle to their feet, running. 

the dragons’ breath descends on them, blasting naz sidelong away, and a wall of fire rises between them, cutting them off from him. bull moves to get closer, to help, can see the dragon so close, its wings arched into the air and it’s snarl. then blackwall’s there, yanking him back and away, yelling for him to run. 

bull sees the flaming arrow pierce the sky. haven’s people are safe. 

the mountain thunders, unleashing an avalanche of snow, burying the very _idea_ of haven under a sea of white. the dragon takes off into the sky moments later, and it's gone. bull feels _useless._


	5. lives, lived, will live

the herald is dead until he isn’t. 

cullen finds him just on the cusp of freezing to death outside their makeshift camp. he spares him enough thought to make sure naz isn’t _actively dying_ before he returns to his screaming match with the other advisors.

they are tired, exhausted. but fear keeps them going.

naz doesn’t stay in his cot, despite the healers now constant distress. he limps off without a word, looking like death itself. bull keeps his eye on him as naz skirts around havens’ people like a wounded dog, _he’s hiding from them_ , until he steps quietly next to bull. 

he looks up at bull, and despite the horrific, bloodied state he’s in, he glares.

“ _hissrad_.” naz bows to him, mockingly. 

“ _saarebas._ ” iron bull returns, because he’s not _stupid._

and this close he can see it, the tiny, pinprick scars lining naz’s lips, holes where there had once been thick stitches sealing them shut. if he hadn’t been running from an arch demon, bull could have pieced it together back then, when naz blew his own cover to blast them all to safety, the fool. smaller things, that bull had made note of and tucked away in his mind, all clicked into place. 

“surprised it took you this long, really.” naz sighs, he’s too bone tired and weary-to put much bite in his words, “you suck at your job.”

he’s so _expressive now,_ his face is surprisingly unguarded and open. he’s handsome, dark skin to match dark hair, curly and windswept. he lost a horn falling into the caves under haven, the remains of it are short and uneven, and he keeps bringing his shaking fingers up to touch them. his eyes are a pretty shade of pink in the torchlight, and the rim of his helmet is still around his neck, looking like some jagged, torturous collar. 

_it’s a trap,_ bull’s instincts scream, his training wills him to destroy naz. saarebas without keepers were to be put down, it was the way of the qun. but he’s not a saarebas anymore, he’s much more then that, the conclave made sure of it.

bull turns toward naz slowly, because despite his cocky words, naz is tensed and _terrified._ it feels like back when they first met standing across from each other on the beach.. 

he wills his hands steady, as they move to unbuckle the pitiful remains of naz’s helmet from his neck. the _second_ his fingers touch the metal naz suppresses a flinch, his face twitching and his arms make an aborted move toward a battle axe that wasn’t there. bull knows he lost it in the snow storm, that it had nearly been the thing that _killed_ him, if he had continued to stubbornly drag it alongside with him as he searched for them. 

he realizes naz honestly thinks he’s about to kill him right now, just like that.

the metal practically gives way under his hands, bull stops before he chucks it to the ground, and offers it to naz, who stares with a dazed expression. 

“are you going to stay?” naz asks, and it’s soft, like the look on his face.

“are you?”

naz laughs at that, and it is _so much better_ to see the way his eyes crinkle at the edges and his lips turn up, then to guess with the helmet’s impassive face. the sound is strained, punched out of him against his will and there’s barely any humor to it but it’s a start in the right direction. 

“do you think they’d _let_ me leave, at this point?” naz smiles, and the pure exhaustion in his eyes is suffocating.

he’s right. bull knows there’s no going back, not after all this. naz wouldn’t be able to run from this if he tried. they needed him now, the _inquisition_ needed him now. the war counselors are still screaming each other hoarse across the bonfire from them, someone had to keep them from killing each other. there was a god trying to kill them.

naz takes the remains of his helmet from bull’s big hands, lets his touch linger for a second, as if testing just to see what would happen. bull stays still, lets him see no treachery like he would a skittish animal or a child. naz flips the metal round and round in his hands when he pulls away, watches with a frown. 

he hadn’t been lying about the scar on his face, the big burn is set in the skin of his forehead all the way up to his hairline, nowhere near his eye. bull kind of wants to hit him for that.

naz catches his eye, and grins something mean, clearly catching what bull had been looking at. 

“i barely lied at all back then,” he chuckles, “burned myself though, fell on my face while drunk off my ass. landed on a hot poker, dunno why it was there, was stupid.” 

it’s a lie, a fumbling terrible lie. but bull lets him have it, laughs along with him.

they’re both silent for a moment, the chill of the camp sweeps over them and the people of haven keep glancing to naz and the advisors with anguished, desperate looks. bull takes stock of the people still alive in the back of his head again; sera keeps shooting betrayed glares over her shoulder at naz as well, and she seems to be animatedly speaking to blackwall-who looks too tired to do much other then grunt in the way of replies. 

naz eventually goes down like a sack of potatoes, dead on his feet. he acknowledges bull sitting down beside him with a glance. the people of haven, the rebel mages they had collected as allies, the inner circle themselves start a hum around them, a song building off of their grief and loss. a resolve to move forward, as they _unify_. 

when iron bull leans around to glance at him, naz has ghosted away. his eye catches him leaving the light of the camp, as the people around him turn to one another for comfort and guidance, naz pushes away, alone. 

but not quite, he’s intercepted by solas. bull sees him gesture to naz, pulling him further away from the warmth, and they both quietly depart. 

* * *

the herald of andraste becomes the _inquisitor_. and the first thing the newly appointed man does is smash the great hall of skyhold to pieces.

the advisors don’t try to stop naz from shredding the rotten furniture, it’s all going to be replaced once the inquisition gets back on its feet truly. the wobbly, pathetic chairs and once grand tables are no match against the new hefty battle hammer in naz’s hands. it propels through the air, lightning fast, _too fast,_ actually, for any average warrior to swing. bull can spy--even from where he stands before the front steps leading inwards--the rippling, almost golden warmth encompassing naz’s hands, different from the usual sickly, fade green that bull’s grown accustomed to seeing from the mark. 

naz kicks an already completely destroyed stool, another _grand victory_ for the inquisition. 

but his next strike shatters everything in a five foot radius around him, magic flaring wildly, the hammer sinks deep into the floor and naz staggers dangerously. the loud boom it creates almost masks the hysterical noises bubbling out of him.

iron bull has never seen the inquisitor use magic, not before the helmet came off and the cat was let out of the bag. naz has never used it to enhance his combat, to show off, not even to save himself from one of his many close calls. this was, logically, because he wanted to keep it a secret from them. 

but naz trembles when his hands glow warm, when the force of the magic blasted around him _he wasn’t expecting it_ , he was _scared_ of it. bull has to wonder how much training he’s had, he seemed out of control and dangerous. an army of red templars was nothing in this moment compared to him, a laid out platter for demons.

solas stands off to the side, disdain and annoyance written clearly into his face.

"you would be better off learning to manage this then take it out on the castle like some savage beast, inquisitor." solas says, barely flinching as loose floorboard and debris goes flying by his head. 

naz growls and huffs with effort trying to dislodge his weapon, he doesn’t spare solas a glance. his eyes are glazed over and he’s sweating from exertion but he doesn’t stop trying.

“naz!” bull growls, lurching toward him even though the energy still crackles in the air, standing the hairs on his arm on end when he grabs naz’s _\--shaking--_ arm. “stop.”

“can i help you, iron bull?” naz asks, and it’s laughable how composed he tries to sound, pretty eyes narrowed dangerously, “i’m a little busy.”

bull just gestures around at the carnage of furniture, _are you fucking serious?_ while he’s likely to only come away with a hundred splinters, naz is still _hurt,_ he needs to rest. he barely survived falling, fighting, and freezing his way out of the wreckage of haven. 

the inquisitor snarls, and his words are laced with venom, 

“you aren’t my arvaarad, iron bull.” he wretches out of bull’s grasp. he draws up to his full height and stands toe to toe against him, even with the fear lighting up in his eyes. 

_i’m still in charge here, don’t forget your place, hissrad._

bull can’t help but think that somewhere they went backwards.

“maybe you could use one, then.” solas pipes up coldly, but thankfully retreats back toward his study.

"you need to get it together, i’m not your arvaarad, and i’m trying to keep you from killing yourself, _naz._ " bull says, and he hates the feel of magic this close, and the wild look in naz’s eyes brings him back to seheron all too quickly. "if you would stop being so stubborn and let someone help you."

naz sucks in a deep breath and holds it, he inches a step back and his eyes dart about everywhere but bull. he looks tired, run down to the bone and he shakes with exhaustion. his breath comes wheezing out of him in a rush and he blinks like he’s just now noticing where he is. for a moment there’s a heartbreakingly fragile expression of sadness and confusion on his face, and then it’s gone.

bull selfishly prefers naz when he’s intact and angry, then to this. 

“where’s-” naz starts, then seems to cut himself off quickly. 

his head whips around, scanning the wrecked room. but there’s nothing but him, bull, and the great hall’s deafening quiet. it feels cold all of a sudden, all the life in the room seemed to drain with naz. 

“will you call for cassandra,” naz mutters after a pause, and he fully walks away to go lean against his hammer, sagging against it. “please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! i post previews sometimes on my tumblr if anyones interested! @godshaper tagged under 'quell previews'


	6. execution

change passes as it always does, with disarming speed and little chance to recover. 

iron bull settles into the new tavern and bar as soon as they clean it out. he drinks steadily for the first few days while the soldiers work on clearing the yard and castle. they had trouble in the main hall, first with just clearing the debris naz had created, and then when they tried to dislodge the great hammer from the floor. 

bull takes this down time to consider things, the inquisitor is one of those things. 

the news of naz being a mage has undoubtedly reached the qunari by now, nothing in all of thedas could have stopped that. he doesn't know if the fact naz is a saarebas has been told to them yet, and the thought of bearing that news makes bull feel nervous. it's not possible for the qunari to really interfere with naz personally, they couldn't assassinate him, not now. they could go to war against him but they wouldn't, not over the life of one saarebas escapee. but it's dangerous territory.

bull himself is, _uncomfortable_ with the knowledge of naz's magic, and it's hard to remind himself who naz is, really. the way naz’s magic manifests, forceful and harsh is just like him, is still terrifying. naz’s handle on self control has always been a slippery thing, his temper and anger, always shifting and demanding something, retribution. 

and he isn’t the only one struggling to come to terms with it. 

naz has less allies now, his magehood was enough to drive off more then a few supporters. what's worse is he's lost friends as well. naz starts spending more and more time away from the others, the ones bull thought he was closest with. he practically hangs against cassandra now, after he called for her days ago in the hall. if you wanted to find either of them, you’d best check the small courtyard where cassandra trains, because naz wouldn’t be far behind, tucked against the short trees that grow in the shade there. 

bull knew they had patched up their tenuous first impressions, but this was strange; they never really saw eye to eye on beliefs, or anything, for that matter. it wasn’t what he expected. it draws a funny little feeling out of his chest. 

sera has been keeping a distance, she fumes and mutters to anyone that would listen. the magic thing had hit her hard, and naz and her had been very close. she’s embarrassed, she’s been tricked and replaced, she _seethes._

there have been small fights between her and naz since then, petty arguments and malicious pranks. naz stabs a mean comment and sera replies with a middle finger and a minor inconvenience. they dance around each other like children, sera too angry to sort her words out and naz too tired and angry to try. 

bull accidentally walks into the middle of one of their spats during the night. naz stands on the stairs of the herald’s rest, covered in what looks like milk and looks close to frothing at the mouth in anger. sera glares down at him, defiant but there’s a hint of fear in her eyes and a bucket at her feet. the tavern below doesn’t fall silent but there is a definite quieting of the patrons, the clinking of mugs and raucous laughter becoming a background hush. 

naz straightens his shoulders, his jaw clenched. there’s a charge sparking in the air, like the tension of a fight begging to start. 

but he slinks off, and out of the tavern without a word, even as sera shouts obscenities at his back.

* * *

the next fight actually happens _during_ a real fight.

they’re in some backwater forest in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and it’s _hot_ and _humid._ every one of them is drenched in sweat and the armor-no matter how light, feels like it’s baking them alive. the ground itself submerges their feet in disgustingly warm, murky water and every step pulls and slows. between that and the bugs, dorian is nearly on the verge of strangling sera as she mouths off again when they practically walk into a pair of bears. which usually weren’t that big of a problem, but the exhaustion was weighing on them all. 

so it ends painfully. 

during the fray sera dodges away from one of the bears, and knocks into naz, upsetting his balance and sending him to the damp forest floor at the feet of slavering, angry bears. he has enough time to roll out of the way for bull to step forward and cleave one’s throat open, and with a free hand he grabs naz by the scruff of his armor and hauls him up. naz dispatches the next one with ruthless efficiency. 

but naz’s eyes swing to sera, his hammer still wedged deep in guts. he twists it up and out with a sickening squelch. 

“don’t look at me that way, watch your bloody feet next time,” sera snips, fidgeting under the scrutiny, she has the decency to look guilty. 

naz flicks the gore off his hammer, splattering sera and an unfortunate dorian in the viscera. 

dorian gags and spews a few ‘vint swears but sera just stands there, surprisingly silent.

* * *

things don’t escalate from there thankfully, but naz stops bringing sera out with them, even though all their missions have been for recruitment, and she was the best at getting the peasants and farm folk to lend a hand to the inquisition. 

naz stays away from the tavern, and sera doesn’t dare set foot in the great hall. 

“when are you going to fix things with sera?” bull asks him, he’s started visiting naz in the gardens. it’s become something of a haven for naz. bull enjoys the quiet, and naz is peaceful there-less stressed, and he rarely snaps while digging in the dirt, planting all number of weird, disgusting looking fungi. bull just kind of likes to watch him, it’s nice. 

naz blinks up at him, a fraying orange cloth covers his face from the nose down, a new habit since his helmet had broken. bull could analyze why he did it until the sun came up and set again, but the simple answer would be it brought comfort to naz.

naz scowls lightly, brushing dirt on his thighs. “why should i always have to fix things again?” 

“why don’t you ever answer a straight question?”

“says the kettle to the pot.”

“touche,” bull concedes, pleasantly content with their bantering. 

the inquisitor resumes his planting, a nasty looking deep mushroom that appears to be either dead or faking it marvelously. 

“she...doesn’t want to talk with me.” naz says, “i’m a mag--something she doesn’t like, but why she still sticks around is beyond me.”

he glances up at bull, squares him with a frosty look of indifference. he’s drowning the mushroom while he does so.

“mhmm, that’s bullshit, boss.” bull says with a shake of his head, he squats down and gently--slowly, nudges naz’s watering can away from the now very dead deep mushroom. he pretends not to notice the flinch that naz suppresses. 

“you should talk to her, might sort things out for the both of you.” bull suggests, “or has she fallen out of your good graces and high expectations already?” 

naz sets his can aside, and takes a moment to breathe deeply, eyes closed. he pulls down the cloth guarding his face to a stare openly at bull, his face is growing steadily more gaunt, bull notices with a twinge of unfamiliar emotion. his eyes are almost dulled and he looks more tired then ever. 

“and when,” naz asks, quiet and strong. “when, iron bull, am i supposed to juggle my own problems on top of all of this, i have people to protect, foes to manage and frankly not enough coin to do any of that. i would love to find time to see my best friend, but she hates me, and do you _blame_ her?”

he picks on the watering can and rises with an air of finality. 

“i am trying with what little i have, iron bull.” he finishes, and for the thousandth time, he walks away from bull.

* * *

there’s a momentary pause to hostilities while the new inquisition holds it’s very first trial. the great hall is packed full of all manner of peoples, and bull can spy sera’s lithe form hugging the wall, craning her head about for a glance at the accused the guards will drag from the dungeons. bull already knows who it will be. 

alexius hasn't changed since bull last saw him in redcliffe, though his robes are dirtier, tattered. his stare drones forward, and he spits hollow threats at the inquisitor's feet, who barely acknowledges him. naz has his face hidden behind a helmet not unlike his first one, but bull can easily visualize the disgusted look on naz’s face regardless. 

bull knows what's coming before naz even opens his mouth. the inquisitor will execute the venatori himself.

_"again?! what do you mean again, inquisitor-?"_

he dons a great sword for the execution, after the advisors insisted he couldn't use his hammer.

* * *

"it didn't feel as good as i thought it would." naz says, with a pondering tone to his voice. they're both still perched on the ramparts, idly watching the soldiers politely clean up the aftermath of the execution. naz has removed his helmet and his soft brown hair blows gently in the wind, contrasting with the splatter of blood still covering the front of him.

"what, killing an old man with a big sword?" bull pokes. 

"that _old man_ tried to kill the world because his son was sick." 

"you have family in your little company of tal vashoth, thought you'd understand where he's coming from." bull is pushing it, blatantly needling for information like this. he knows the cut and clean of naz’s life with the valo kas, but the personal details had been quite hard to get. 

naz just snorts, a humorless little noise. 

"i had a sister and a brother in the company. we were not bound by blood but we all looked so alike we used it to our advantage, that's where the name comes from, "the naz" used to be our handle." he pauses, looks away when a stricken expression flashes across his face. "they probably died in the conclave, no one has mentioned them in the letters, i reckon cullen’s soldiers failed to find them." 

bull doesn't know how to respond to that without setting naz off one way or another. 

“do you blame cullen for it,” bull doesn’t really bother wording it as a question. 

“i will stop blaming cullen when the man stops _failing._ ”

"that's harsh." bull says. 

naz turns to face him fully, the bitter look on his face burning. 

"that man is a _templar_ with no regrets or thought of his actions, he has no plans of reviewing his bigotry and he continues to fail us every step of the way, you'll find i am being _very_ generous with my treatment of commander cullen." naz spits.

the inquisitor stands tall and bristling on windy ramparts, shivering with the cold mountain blasts. there is a moody, sour expression slapped on his face, but he doesn't lash out again. 

“do you miss them?” bull asks.

naz softens minutely, just a slight twitch of emotion, a clench of the fists. 

"you could find out, if they were alive," bull hums, "leliana would send her spies, i could send mine." 

"i don't want to know." naz says, simply. 

bull gets it.


	7. do i wanna know?

crestwood is, in a handful of words, just another shit hole full of fuckery. 

when they arrived it was raining, and five hours later it was still raining, and two days from then it’s still raining. there’s also a rift spewing demons and dead things out from the middle of a lake. it chokes up the air around them, putrid and dead with every inhale. 

the lake rift became an instant problem; with the dead shambling out of its shores to lay siege on the struggling village and their own makeshift camps, simply going to and fro became dangerous. no one was allowed to go anywhere alone, terrible visibility from the rain made stragglers easy targets, they had already lost a handful of unlucky scouts. just making it to the warden contact had been challenging. 

the warden was a friendly looking man, half-elven with kind eyes grown hard with the threat of a sudden calling.

* * *

unfortunately, naz has them spend more time in crestwood then anticipated--even with the danger growing in the western approach; between the rifts and the strangeness of the flooding, naz explores the area with vigor and doesn’t leave a stone unturned.

they stumble upon a dragon, _huge_ and glorious, bull can spot the purple and brown scales of its back glistening in the rain like jewels and longs for _something_ deeply. though naz’s eyes light up and bull grins at the sight of it, heart already quickening, they don’t fight it. 

“not today, bull.” naz says, rubbing at his wrist almost absentmindedly. curiously, his marked hand sparks to life at the same time.

* * *

they do get to fight the wyverns. 

there’s two, both equally ugly and ready to battle to the death at a moment's notice. bull trudges through thigh deep water just to smash into them, splashing wildly with his swings, pretending they were just a little bigger and meaner, and _dragony-er._

he ends up face first in the muck when two wyverns become _three_ , with a heavy weight pressing him down, sharp teeth and claws digging into his skin. bull chokes on mud, pushing hard with his elbows to shake free. 

there’s a muffled yell and a responding shrill scream from the creature above him, it tightens its grip painfully, and then drops all of its weight onto him as it dies. 

cassandra shoves the beast away and pulls bull up enough so he isn’t breathing mud anymore and rushes away. bull is still blind, whipping around listening for an attack as he wipes at his eye. 

“solas! to the inquisitor!” he hears cassandra call, and seconds later he hears her shield bash into thick hide and scale, and then a squawk. 

bull’s sight returns to see the last wyvern fall under cassandra’s sword, he twinges with disappointment. 

solas is kneeling over naz, who is crouched low to the ground, swaying and gasping clutching at his chest with scrambling hands, his marked arm seems to flicker sickly green. the elf mutters something fast and blue lights flash a complex symbol in the air between their bodies. 

naz’s breathing slows and he seems to relax, falling flat backwards on the muddy embankment. the stab of panic bull had felt eases. 

bull opens his mouth to say something but naz beats him to it. 

“cass--all dead?” he manages in a wheeze.

“yes, they are dead.” cassandra replies, sheathing her sword. “should we bring the naturalist the whole bodies or just the livers?”

“don’t…care.” naz gives her a shaky thumbs up and lets his arm flop back down on the ground. 

bull wanders up to him, scanning the inquisitor twice over. he doesn’t even look badly injured, the wyverns’ had left cosmetic damages on his armor, nothing more. he gently prods him with a boot to the side, hoping to hit him in a bruise. 

“you good? that-” 

“‘m _fine_ , just got caught a claw by mistake, needed a top up.” naz snaps. “you look like you rolled in shit by the way, it’s a good look for you, really brings out the sex appeal.”

bull squints at him, then down at himself, still covered in drying mud from his head to his toes down the front. 

“that’s fair.” he shrugs, still studying naz intently. 

“we should harvest the corpses now, before they start... mixing with the water.” cassandra interrupts, with a hint of disgust as she turns a wyvern over with the bottom of her shield, revealing the thoroughly bisected stomach slowly dripping it’s innards onto the ground. naz grumbles and bitches as he rises to his feet, dramatically flourishing a hunting knife as he stalks to the wyvern corpses. 

bull claps cassandra on the shoulder as he passes her. 

“thanks for the help there,” he says, wiggling a finger down at the dead wyvern she flips on its side.

“you’re welcome, but i did not kill the wyvern, that was naz.” she says, “it was foolish of him, he should have waited for me to handle it.”

“why?” bull asks with razor sharp curiosity. 

cassandra starts. she isn’t the worst at hiding her emotions, but she’s looking at him with such disbelief bull feels thrown completely out of the loop. her eyes flick over to naz, whose back is turned away from them, then to back to bull.

“it is nothing, forget i said anything, please.” she says with finality, and resumes gutting her wyvern.

* * *

during the trek back to skyhold naz flits between person to person, giving orders and asking endless questions. he listens to several trainers and teachers, to scout reports and soldiers gossip. spread thin but still reaching out. 

naz had decided to regroup them in skyhold, and journey forth to the western approach from there, as the distance otherwise would have been too long with their short supplies. they cut through the wildlife as they make their way back home. 

naz is muttering and mumbling to himself, pouring over a map with a pencil in hand as he lags behind their group. bull watches sera fall in stride next to him, hovering with nervous energy. 

he’s several steps behind them, and it’s difficult even for him to spot the little jump naz gives as she points something out on the map. naz’s head whips to stare at her, and then ever so slowly, naz moves his hands over to let her grasp half of the parchment and they both start to scribble, heads together like cohorts in a grand scheme.

* * *

bull isn’t aiding the inquisition to play middle man negotiator between a pair of squabbling adults, and certainly not to these _very pissy_ adults. but he still finds himself casually chatting to sera anyway.

she’s thankfully in a good mood when he finds her; propped up on the roof of the tavern with a handful of dried date pits that she chucks at random passersby to her own delight. 

below them and several yards off, naz spends his precious spare time while they prepare for the journey to western approach sparring with krem. it’s play fighting more then anything, just waving fists around like idiots and flexing at the poor inhabitants of skyhold with big cheeky grins that absolutely do not warm bull’s heart. 

bull isn’t surprised they ended up getting along, but he’s pleased naz doesn’t try to stomp his second in command into the ground like he does with cullen, not that krem would let him. 

he makes light, meaningless conversation with sera first, trying to keep her from raising her guard, it feels weird and slightly disrespectful to use his ben-hassrath training for this. he points out the sparring; what they could be doing better, the foot work and how to use it to your advantage until sera tells him to knock it off. 

“-he’s just so stupid, innit he?” sera gripes, after dinging a pit off the back of solas’ head a few paces away, she had nearly toppled off the roof cackling to herself like a mad woman. 

“who? solas? in a way sure-” bull considers. 

“no you _tit_ , the heraldry, magicy glowy hand man with a face full of stitches!” sera cries, throwing her hands up in frustration, she loses a couple of her pits in the process but bull isn’t going to point it out, nor is he going to point out that naz’s face isn’t filled with stitches. not anymore.

“ah,” bull says, succinctly, “well, yeah, he’s a hard headed asshole sometimes, and his control of magic is frankly worrying, and he’s always walking away in the middle of conversation-”

“alright lover, you’ve been thinkin’ about this a lot more then me,” sera snorts, patting him on the arm, “i meant that, he-ya know, he doesn’t think right. jumps to the wrong points, right? right.” 

right.

“what?” bull asks. 

“UGH, he’s always thinking the wrong way! you know!” sera says, tapping repetitively on the loose tiles of the roof “like with you, he just started hating you for no reason, but you ain’t hurt him yet because of the magic or sarry-bis qunari shit, and he hasn’t tried to kill you! so you’re both thinkin’ wrong.”

“i don’t think it’s that simple, sera.” bull says, slightly dazed by the quickness of her words. 

“fuck you it ain’t, all you big people try to make it hard.” sera huffs, then wiggles her eyebrows incessantly, elbowing bull in the side. “geddit? make it hard? anyways.”

she loops her hands together pensively, her head resting on her bent knees and turned toward bull. 

“he could’ve just said he was good.” she says. 

“what do you mean?”

“that he’s a good one, not a bad one, you know.” 

he does not.

“a good mage--or err… a _better one_ , you know, not one of the red ones, or the ones that try to hurt people, at least not the good people.” sera explains, like one would to a child.

bull can barely mask his incredulous stare from her. 

“so...are you both... good?” he asks, making grabby hands for a date pit that sera graciously deposits to him. she shrugs noncommittally. 

“i don’t know, he’s being weird.” she says, frowning. “we talked a bit, but he’s...”

“weird?”

“yeah.”

bull takes careful aim, winding back his arm and hurling the pit across the courtyard. it connects perfectly with naz’s ass; he jumps and throws a middle finger up at them, turning beet red just as quickly. 

bull grins as sera snorts and shrieks with laughter. he lets his gaze run appreciatively along the exposed softness and muscle of naz’s upper torso, cataloging scars and blemishes away for later. there’s something different about him, bull can’t quite put his finger on it. 

naz catches his eye and holds his stare for a long second.

“i take that as a challenge, iron bull.” naz shouts, snapping into a battle stance that’s more showy then practical. “care for a rematch, _darling?_ ” 

well, who is he to say no?

sera hoots and punches his arm, jeering along with krem as he jumps off the edge of the roof and lands with a grunt. 

it’s picture perfect; clear skies and pleasantly warm, naz is remarkably open and happy in the sunshine. bull can almost pretend he can’t see the worn out edges of him. it’s a far flung feeling from their first match in haven, this version of naz is calm and smiling in a knowing manner. his marked arm sticks out like a sore thumb, even while dormant and unused it glows with soft light, and the fade green creeps up to naz’s wrist. bull swears he sees it moving under his skin and shudders. 

naz lets him step over the fence posts into the ring, and then he smashes into him. 

he has the advantage of pure recklessness, bringing his fists into bull’s stomach and stamping down on his shin near bull’s knee brace--it’s a dirty move and it almost makes him wobble dangerously. bull tries to take a breath and focus but-

there's a curious scent that catches bull off kilter; heady and _primal_ , when bull inhales lowly its almost searing his nose and it staggers him. 

"not to be weird, but you smell...different." bull grunts, a little overwhelmed.

"d'you like it, bull?" naz quips, backing off a few steps to hover just out of reach. his eyes dart all over bull's body, like he's looking for a red flag.

"i might."

"QUIT TALKING AND HIT EACH OTHER!" sera shouts in the background.

bull snaps back into action, he throws himself into the fight, and before naz can dart away from him, he grabs his arms and swings him around, slamming him into one of the fence posts. he breathes in deep while he's pressed up this close, and he's a little surprised when naz stills by a sliver to let him. 

"is that dragon blood?" bull asks against his neck. 

naz strains a laugh, trying to subtly worm his arm out of his grasp for some leverage. "i started my reaver training, i've been guzzling the stuff."

“that’s hot, boss.” bull says, smiling. 

it works, and naz stops to sputter incredulously. bull pushes him harder against the slowly splintering fence. naz kicks wildly, and bull just hauls him up higher until he’s almost dangling in the air and he has to stand on tip toe to stay upright. 

“that’s it? what kind of reaver are you?” bull taunts.

naz winds back and head butts him, really, _really hard_. he uses his distraction to scramble out of bull’s grasp, looping around him and elbowing him solidly in the back. the scent follows him, tantalizing.

bull grins, bleeding slightly from the nose and delighted. 

they end up stale-mating, to krem and sera’s despair. both bloodied and wild eyed, bull considers it a victory, looking over naz’s reddened face. he has a lot to think about now.


	8. boum boum boum

iron bull is fighting a dragon.

she’s _gorgeous_ , colored a deep blood red with green freckled along her belly, with great big horns just like his. she screams and gnashes like a demon, sand flies and lands like rain over them with her lunges, close calls with razor sharp claws. it’s sweltering, the sun is in bull’s eyes, and he has dirt and sand in every single crevice in his body. he’s having the best day of his life.

he barely notices his companions darting around him, naz and cassandra rushing along the small dunes with their heavy armaments, solas in the back casting frost and shields as they leap and swing, trying for lucky hits as the dragon dives low above them.

iron bull is _killing_ a dragon. 

she topples with one last vicious tail spin, hitting the sand with such a force that it lifts and scatters the small rocks and boulders around them with a loud slam. bull lets out an ecstatic yell, and varghests chitter with interest in the distance, and bull is almost hopeful one will be daring enough to challenge them for a bite of dragon meat, just to keep the adrenaline going.

bull’s companions can't seem to agree with his revelry; solas sits against a rock, unsteady and bloodied, and still _slightly_ smoldering from the fire breath; he had rushed in to pick naz up in the middle of the fray after the giant idiot got himself flung across the nesting grounds like a ragdoll, a sight that would have been on the side of terrifying had he not been swearing at the top of his lungs at the time.

the inquisitor and cassandra go straight to business, discussing how they’ll harvest the beast, what that professor in the desert wanted with the information. nothing that interested him though, bull is high off the kill; he's shouting, practically jumping up and down in delight. the sight of the massive beast at their feet keeps setting him off over and over, much to the others’ annoyances. 

naz strides across the sands to the dead dragon, ignoring bull’s glee to take it in for a moment. he lays a hand on its brow, feeling along the length of its scales.

then he steps into it’s mouth.

he has to crouch down to fit, even with it still agape like it was just about to breathe fire and set them aflame. solas makes a retching sound behind him but bull doesn’t even blink because naz is _inside the mouth of a dead dragon_ and bull’s brain sort of short circuits. 

he emerges a few minutes later slicked in saliva and blood, he throws a pair of dragon teeth into the sand, obsidian black with jagged strands of flesh still clinging to the sharp edges where he cut them out. 

“something to remember her by?” naz says cheerfully, as if he isn’t just _killing_ bull.

“mhm.” he says. 

there’s a familiar feeling bull recognizes from all those times back in haven as naz watches him curiously, something ticking in his head. he removes his helmet, face flushed from the heat and fighting and grinning wickedly. 

uh oh. 

he maintains perfect eye contact as he walks closer to bull until he’s close enough to touch, carefully dragging two fingers through the blood coating his armor, and with an evil glint in his eyes, he smears it across his own lips, painting them vibrant red. 

before bull can restart his brain, naz kisses bull’s cheek with a loud smack, leaving a perfect mark. he pulls away with blood smeared lips drawn back in a flirtatious smile. 

“and a memory for now, just for you, bull.” naz says breezily.

“that is disgusting.” solas deadpans, clearly at his own breaking point and begins to walk away from them all without another word.

* * *

desert nights are freezing things, bull finds. his bedroll sits on the cold dirt, leeching away at his body heat. but desert nights were quieter then most, besides the occasional scream of a varghest or hyenas.

bull’s tent isn’t spacious, but it is a great deal bigger then the others after he ripped the last two standard issue ones they gave him. it means he has enough room to sit up on his bedroll and see the exact moment naz’s hand peeks through the canvas and the rest of him follows.

he has to hunch over to keep his horn from brushing the top of the canvas, but he still manages to look determined when he meets bull’s eye. with careful steps he moves closer, each footfall taken with precision, nearly timid, like a wild animal.

“is this okay?” naz asks, barely above a whisper, now standing on his knees as he inches toward bull.

but he stops. he stops moving, he stops breathing--just hovering above bull, frozen. leant forward as if being pulled in by invisible force. close enough to see the heat in his eyes, the flush spreading across his face, warm and open. he stops and he waits.

“yeah.” bull says, letting his knees fall apart slowly, watching naz with a curious eye.

“good.”

before bull can even think _-this isn’t what i was expecting-_ naz slides down, landing neatly in his lap. he exhales quick and tense, one hand rests on bull’s chest but the other floats by his own waist, shaking and thumbing over the hilt of a knife. he makes no move to draw it or move, staring bull down silently. 

bull _knows_ naz, if he was going to stab him, it would have happened already.

“still?” naz checks, his pupils are blown wide, just barely lit up by the lantern fire. he still smells of dragon and blood. 

bull ghosts his hands up naz’s loose shirt, dragging his fingers across his sides until they meet the tough, unforgiving fabric of his binder, and just rests them there. marveling at the softness of his skin. 

“yeah, boss.” bull rumbles, smiling quietly to himself as naz shivers under his hands. 

naz’s hands abandon their hovering to pull bull’s face toward his own, and if it wasn’t for his trembling it might have been sweet.

“it’s just the cold,” says naz.

he doesn’t leave after, that surprises bull. naz simply curls back against his chest, murmuring something about rest. 

* * *

bull wakes in the middle of the night to the feeling of being watched and opens his eyes to meet naz’s, soft and curious, the pink of his irises almost completely bleed out in the low lights, leaving them pale and ghostly. 

“you have so many scars,” naz says, so, so quietly, “do you remember all of them?”

“just the important ones.” bull replies, studying the relaxed creases and lines of naz’s face as he scrunches his eyebrows together. 

“do you remember the worst?” 

bull doesn’t have to think hard. images come to him unbidden; fog and humidity, long nights that crept up and strangled you, poisonous. people who looked like monsters, and the ones that were monsters.

“seheron.” he grunts, in way of an answer.

naz’s expression clears, understanding and he leaves it at that. he brushes his hair back and out of his face, almost nervously running his fingers through the tangled dark curls. they stray across the scar, more melted skin then anything. he meets bull’s questioning gaze with a small smile.

“it was humans.” naz breathes, “that bit wasn’t a lie too.”

“what happened?” bull asks, resisting the urge to bring his own hand up to touch. 

“i happened.” naz says, shrugging noncommittally, shoulders raised defensively. “they saw what i could do, and fancied themselves make do templars. but you see, peasant folk don’t really know how to start a rite of tranquility, they just know how to brand something.” 

he traces along his forehead, mapping out the ugly lines that badly mimic the sunburst symbol bull has seen imprinted on many a mages’ face. it's crude, some are almost purple in color, and the burns run deeper then a real mark of tranquility but it looks just as cruel. 

his fingers curls into a fist, tightening around his hair until it looks painful. 

“they saw me,” he continues, staring up at the canvas ceiling away from bull. “they saw me _hurting_ , i wasn’t-- _i don’t remember-_ but i know the only one hurting was me. my kin found me before they could do more harm, and that was that.”

naz doesn’t guard his face, he never does, or simply can’t without the aid of his helmet. he is an open book, painful and simmering with past and present anger. 

“i should have razed them to the ground.”

bull takes naz’s hand in his, pulling it out of his tangled nest of hair. he finds himself adoring the moments when naz is calm, speckled in sunlight and at peace, as fleeting as they are. he wants to soothe, steal away the fury that lights up naz’s insides and threatens to consume him, it’s all too easy to see himself in that, burning up just like naz in two identical pyres. 

but naz recoils, he pushes back so fast he scrambles off the bed roll and onto the soft dirt, chest heaving, eyes glazed over. both his hands spark up, casting the tent in a glow--one golden, the other green, and then it dissipates just as quick as he comes back to himself, a guilty look flashing across his face.

“why are you telling me this? why do you do this to yourself?” he wants to pull him back in, but the pain and distrust in naz’s eyes is directed at _him_ , even now. 

naz breathes deep, slow but unsteady. his gaze flit away from bull, mouth opening and closing but seemingly at a loss for words, he's too quiet in the still of night, eerily off kilter. the glow in his hands returns, pulsing like a heartbeat and drawing tears to naz’s eyes. 

“i--need to go.” naz mumbles, the too familiar look of confusion spread across his face, the need to run away tugging him backwards. 

"naz," bull calls, hurt blossoming painful and present in his chest. but naz just shakes his head, clutching his arms tightly to his chest as if they were all that was keeping him from bursting apart at the seams. 

he pushes apart the canvas tent flaps, sparing one torn look over his shoulder before he exits into the cold starry night, for a moment his face is framed in moonlight and bull thinks he looks beautiful. and then he’s gone, and bull is alone in a suddenly too empty tent.


	9. who blinks first--you or the abyss?

the morning is just as cold as the night. they walk for hours over sand dunes and rock formations as the day gradually warms to it’s usual sweltering heat. until they reach a tower, dark and menacing. 

bull meets hawke for the first time at the foot of it; they’re a short, roguish individual with a stoic face and quiet words. they immediately brighten when they catch sight of varric, a warm expression overtaking them briefly. they quickly snap back into action, with warnings of what awaits them ahead, hands loosely gripping the hilts of dagger and sword. 

a man--a _warden_ dies as they ascend the stairs, falling limp into a pool of his own blood as a demon rises in his place. bull lets the threat of blood rituals take his thoughts, ignoring the stricken horror of the warden mages falling victim to demons one by one. better them then you.

a snide magister bows to them as they arrive, his voice grates on and on, and it’s clear he loves to hear himself talk. it feels like alexius all over again, only this one doesn’t have a dying son, he’s just an asshole. 

he shows off his control, dancing the wardens around like sick puppets, the blood slicked floor turns their footsteps red. lifeless warden warriors staring glass eyed and dead in piles as an audience. 

he seems all too happy to chatter away information until he isn’t; the magister grows bored with them, snapping an arm out with red, _red_ tendrils following after straight toward the inquisitor. naz kneels over with a stifled shout, holding his marked arm at the elbow as if in pain.

bull feels a stab of fear--quickly stamped down. 

bull lurches forward, rushing to naz’s aid but he’s already hauling himself up. with wordless fury he raises his arm skyward and opens a rift. 

with the same motion he used to close them, one appears in the air above, barely a foot wide. bull can see into it; the fade, impossible space and things hovering just beyond. the venatori magister startles, falling backwards on his ass as the ichor so familiar to the fade spills through over his head. he retreats, sniveling all the while. 

it lasts for all but a second, a blink and it’s gone. bull stands frozen, one hand outstretched toward naz, until the warden mages move to fight them. 

it doesn’t take more then a minute into the aftermath before hawke quips something harsh and undue in alistair’s direction, anger burning in their eyes almost as explosively as naz’s. they dissolve into arguments, petty and misdirected. 

naz ignores them in favor of staring at his arm, shucking away the bracer and pulling the tight under armor up to reveal the ever softly pulsing mark of the rift. he traces over the discolored skin, clenching his hand into a fist. 

bull swears it’s crawled further up his arm, watching with an uncomfortable feeling deep in the gut. 

the sky darkens, even with night so far away.

* * *

“be careful out there,” naz says.

he stands with folded arms less then hundred feet away from adamant fortress. his posture is calm, despite the buzzing around him of foot soldiers and siege wagons, like an angry wasp nest as the tension in the air sings for blood. in the distance bull can see cullen commanding the troops with the help of cassandra, the ballistas ringing through the dark sky.

“careful isn’t really my style.” bull returns, smiling when naz predictably rolls his eyes. 

bull can just make out the familiar forms of his allies in the fray; vivienne in her battle adornments, commanding her own line of mages with haunting authority. the quick and shifty movements of solas through the mass of soldiers, forging his own path through as always. 

he thinks he sees the top of a big hat and long blond hair but he blinks its gone just as quickly as the thought. 

sera is chatting up the chargers, all glee and nervous energy, but she can’t seem to stop looking over her shoulder at the fortress. she’ll be fighting with them, as naz leads his own unit to the heart of the problem, hopefully to stop the wardens from killing themselves so they can all go home and stop waking up with sand everywhere. 

naz spares him a soft once over, with just the hint of a sad smile, picking up his helmet and slinging it under his arm. the other glitters and crackles through his thinner under armor, seemingly reacting to the chaos enveloping them. 

he stares at bull, head tilted to the side. always scrutinizing.

“i’ll see you on the other side, yeah?” naz calls, already motioning his team away--dorian, blackwall, varric, all looking grim but ready.

bull watches him leave, planes of harsh armor glinting off the moonlight, striding always toward the conflict.

* * *

it’s all too easy to dive into the battle surrounded by his chargers and sera. they full body barrel through the fortress; krem and him at the front lines smashing into corrupted wardens and demons. 

there’s a fiery explosion over his shoulder from sera, buzzing of bees and shrieks of confusion mixed with her own laughter. dalish slings arrows that look suspiciously like fireballs at the exposed warden mages, the others cleverly dispatching the rest as her magic sends the wardens into a panic.

they run on and on and on, until they reach a clearing. smack dab in the center lies a rift, bigger then most he’s seen traveling the countryside. it seems to seeth in the conflict, letting out weird guttural sounds that echo in the courtyard, almost stifled by the cries of people and demon alike. 

bull moves to take the defensive, motioning to the chargers’ to follow his lead: he can see wardens fighting wardens, and while it’s heartening to know some had come to their senses, he has no way of distinguishing ally from foe in the heat of things. they hold their ground, waiting for the enemy to come to them. 

he loses track of time there, falling into muscle memory and instincts. until the rift beside them lights up furiously, suddenly spitting forth varric and dorian, then blackwall. for a confused moment they just spin on the spot, then they turn back to the portal with bated breath, not even paying attention to the battle around them. 

a stocky, dark form tumbles through it seconds later, and bull recognizes them not as a demon but hawke. they're bleeding heavily, shaved head bashed open and they instantly crumble into the waiting arms of varric, who looks equally frantic, bloody, and relieved.

the few demons still alive are being dispatched with the help of the chargers and soldiers, but even as they're cut down, another joins the fray moments later, endlessly trickling from the rift. the remaining wardens have shuddered to a stop, either dead or too tired to continue. 

alistair comes barreling through next, staggering as he lands on hard unforgiving stone. he still looks backwards into the fade with a conflicted look of fear across his face, sword dangling uselessly in his hand. 

bull can't process it quick enough. he doesn't notice the way the others instantly tense up the moment alistair appears. he doesn't even think to question it, just sees the dead and the demons surrounding him and his people, the call of madness rattling around in his brain.

"where’s naz?" dorian shouts over the din, throwing up a shield over himself, and varric and hawke as the demons descend on them.

bull swings around, cutting down a frenzied shade with a brutal thud. he casts his gaze over the battlefield, scanning for the familiar set of broken horns among the fighters, listening for the sound of smashing metal and bone as naz surely destroys a foe with his battle hammer. he must have missed him coming through the portal, why hasn’t he closed it yet?

“ _you let him stay?!_ ” hawk screams, their eyes burning holes into alistair with disbelief

they rise in an attempt to defend themself, looking dead on their feet but they rise all the same with sword and dagger in hand. they look to dorian, then to the rift still emanating its green glow--something akin to grief pulling down the lines of their mouth, the all familiar sight of _survivor's guilt_. 

the rift shudders, and the weight of the world crushes in on them tenfold.

* * *

_"this is your fault."_

it's cassandra, hours later, smattered in ash and grime. her rage replacing grief as she looms over varric, looking just a hair away from cutting him down. she sweeps a table’s contents onto the floor instead, to some mild, terrified protests from the healers. 

the camp they've built is less then ideal, but they can't leave now. the soldiers and living wardens still guard the rift, keeping the monsters at bay. 

varric barely flinches at her accusations, he sits there under her ire, holding tightly to hawke’s hand, who rests fitfully in their cot. their head is wrapped in bandages but they look just as bad as they did hours ago. 

bull’s own wounds are bad he’s been told, but he can barely feel them, even as the healers stitch and cut. he had taken a rather bad hit to the side of his head, and he can still hear the ringing in his ears. 

they _can’t_ leave now.

"i know." varric murmurs, not taking his eyes off hawke.

"if you had told me--if hawke were here instead of _him_ , he would have-" 

"i _know_." varric snaps, hurt lacing his words. hawke's hand squeezes tighter around his.

he meets cassandra’s glare, matching her grief with his own, but bull can see the guilt hiding in his eyes. the unspoken _thank andraste it wasn’t hawke._

cassandra stalks the makeshift tent. she's limping, but she won't settle for the healers. her glare flits away from varric to hawke, and there’s a moment where she connects the dots, looking to their hands entwined in a death grip before her gaze hardens again. 

“what was the last thing you saw?” she says to hawke, gritting out her words. 

“the nightmare demon, and... the warden was trying to fight it, to clear a path. the inquisitor was supposed to be right behind me.” hawke grunts, struggling to sit up despite varric’s fretting. 

“that’s _it?_ ” cassandra snarls, desperation clawing up her throat. 

hawke huffs, a grim and angry sound from their chest. they’re older then bull was expecting, less kind then varric’s stories, or maybe they were just so worn down, too frayed at the edges from the harsh realities of their life. 

“people die, seeker.” hawke says lowly, “you should know that by now.”

bull hauls himself to his feet, his cot sliding back loudly, ignoring the healers behind him as he goes. he needs air, he tells himself, he needs time to think about anything else, don’t let the demons get the better of your mind, stay in control. don’t think of naz, don’t break now.

his feet carry him past sera and blackwall, both sitting close together under the firelight. his arm around her in a comforting embrace, as she holds in tears and fury both until she’s red in the face. blackwall nods as he passes, he always looks sad but the mournful hurt radiating from him is fresh on the soul, his shoulders slumped forward in defeat that he tries not to show. 

bull doesn’t stop to speak, even when sera starts to mumble something his way.

it’s quiet further away from the camp, even the constant scream of fighting is dulled to mere static in the back of bull’s mind. the dark sands seem to stretch on and on endlessly, with only a few smatterings of bushlife and twigs hiding behind large boulders to break it up. 

he settles on a rock, taking a moment to just go still, feeling the cold surface below him steal away the little warmth he had. he doesn’t startle when a person quietly sits down next to him, his hearing isn’t that bad, but he’s a little surprised to see alistair of all people. 

“sorry, this spot taken?” he says, bright voiced but strained. 

bull grunts, but the warden seems to take that as _‘why no, please do what you will’._

the warden spares bull a minute of silence, staring out at the moon in it’s waning state. there are no stars in the sky, but the moonlight illuminates the sand in a soft glow, painting it a dark shade of blue. it’s strange and nearly ethereal in its beauty, but bull can’t help but see sickening green everytime he closes his eye. 

“so...” alistair starts, awkwardly, _devastatingly_ awkward. “that was...bad? i’m sorry, i-were you close, y'know, to the inquisitor?” 

bull _sighs._

“no.” he says.

“really?”

“wh-yes. i mean no.”

“oh,” alistair looks away.

the half elf taps nervously against the stone, his legs kicking back and forth out of rhythm. 

“i just..” he tries again, “i’ve lost people, a lot of people, actually. i know what it’s like, i think, to lose someone this uh...magnificent?”

bull laughs so loud alistair jumps, the sound bursting forth without permission. the warden goes pink around the ears, hunching forward.

“that is _not_ the right word for him.” bull chokes.

“larger then life, then!” alistair recovers. he sobers up quickly, “i’ve been there though, the warden died. _the_ warden, the hero of ferelden just dead in the dirt. and i could have stopped it. i _should_ have stopped it but that _stupid_ man--”

alistair shakes his head, a sad smile breaking across his bruised face, his eyes far away in the past. just a split second flash of heartache and pain, of darkspawn and betrayal. 

“he pushed me.” 

“what?” bull asks.

“naz pushed me,” alistair says again, “i was supposed to stay behind to clear the way for him, and he pushed me out of the way and charged on by himself. that's the second time someone's died because i wasn't good enough.”

bull stares, the warden flounders, uncertain. there’s nothing but the sweep of the wind and the cold around them. and a funny little feeling in the pit of bull’s stomach. 

“yeah,” bull says numbly, “that wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.”

“it looked brave.” alistair cringes, wincing at his own words.

 _it wasn’t_ , bull thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big chapter after big delay. 
> 
> dai alistair has no rights, so i based how he talks and acts off of origins, which i havent played in 200 years so apologies if he sounds off.
> 
> fyi there is no major character death for this series, if anyone was worried.


	10. what-ifs and once champions

no one knows the inquisitor is dead. all the big powerful people in charge have slammed on the brakes in the wake of naz’s disappearance.

the soldiers that fought in the battle for adamant stay there, along with the grey wardens, uselessly guarding the fade rift. alistair promises to stay as well, to ease the tensions building between the once rival factions. 

they have to assign a guard to erimond on the way back to skyhold. not because he’s dangerous or out of control, but because too many inquisition agents want to try their luck and beat him into the ground before he can face a trial. 

it’s a wonder he makes it back alive regardless, from the way sera keeps eyeing him. 

a hush fell over the courtyard on their arrival as they trudged through, coated in sand and all other sorts of disgusting remnants from battle. the hurt limped off to the towers for healing, while the others lingered, unsure in the silence. 

sera finally grew fed up with the somber mood, letting out an explosive noise accompanied by a curse; she bounds off for her roofside room without another word. 

after that they all sort of scatter

the people of skyhold aren't stupid, despite having little reason to suspect their herald had gone and died, the sorrow they had dragged back from the desert with them was causing a sting of uncertainty to rise up among the common folk. 

it would only get worse from there.

* * *

“ _you think of him and it hurts, you tell yourself not to, but you still do. he’s dead again, third times the charm, but what if-?_ ” cole says, in way of greetings. he must have crept up on bull in that usual, spirity way, slinking around like a ghost.

“hey cole.” bull snorts, faltering for a moment before continuing to beat the shit out of a training decoy, since no one around is in the right mood or willing enough to beat the shit out of him for five minutes. 

everyone is scrambling in the castle behind him, plans have to be made and deals to be brokered. bull can’t seem to stop thinking about the fade, glad he never saw it properly but what could have changed if he had been there?

“hello, the iron bull,” he returns, unnervingly void. but he ticks the corners of his mouth up in a massacred attempt at a smile, all pearly white teeth. varric would be proud. 

cole doesn’t say anything more then that, but bull suspects he’s waiting for the perfect moment to spring something on him. bull shuffles a bit to keep the spirit just in sight out of the corner of his eye, though he’s just sitting there on the fence, balancing on the sharp edges with ethereal grace. 

bull raises his weapon, falling back into his rhythm uneasily. 

“how do you think he died?”

bull swings wide, the decoy’s poorly constructed face blankly looking up at him with imagined pity. 

“sera says he’s still alive, but i know she thinks he died fighting, always fighting, never coming up for air. he’s strongest that way, untouchable, still longing for contact.” cole continues, oblivious to bull’s sputtering. “blackwall saw the nightmare, and he’s afraid of what the body will look like; _mangled, torn to pieces, faceless, ev--_ ”

“ _enough_ , cole.” bull pleads, forcing his voice to come out level and calm, his arms shake and he tells himself it’s the exhaustion catching up to him.

“i’m sorry, i’ve upset you.” cole blinks owlishly. he speaks like he’s reciting lines off a script paper. “the naz was teaching me not to do that as much, i’ll try to learn on my own.”

“ _the_ naz?” bull asks, distracted. 

cole nods. 

“he was one part of a puzzle, the three pieces stronger then anything combined--weak as well, but together all the same, _whole_ ; the naz breathed as one.” cole says, pausing for a beat, “they won’t know what happened to their brother.” 

the spirit turns his head slowly and stares bull down blankly, expectantly.

* * *

hawke isn’t named the new inquisitor, but they step into naz’s boots with practiced ease and no one dares challenge them. they aren’t anything like naz, iron bull comes to see, despite both seeming to be prickly individuals, hawke is nothing like him.

where naz fought, wormed, and screamed his way through all the obstacles in his path with burning passion, and a righteousness to help even if it hurt--hawke rules over skyhold completely void of anything. any bit of compassion seemed to have been ripped up from the roots, so cold and numb to the worlds’ anguish around them.

they stalk the castle with vivid indifference, only seeming to come up for air in the presence of varric, who grows more and more worried with each passing day. 

every single one of the inner circle is called to the war table, one at a time, in most cases. it’s an unceremonious summoning, coldly delivered by a random, faceless inquisition soldier. bull still feels a prickling of unease as he walks the hall, it’s grandeur muted, subdued and oppressed. like the walls themselves are silently mourning. 

the war table is an unfamiliar sight; when bull communicated with the spymaster it was up above, in her tower filled with birds.

the room is huge, lightly decorated and near the center rests a set of tables straining under the weight of countless piles of papers, maps, and books. little figurines dot the map, resembling soldiers and cavalry, spies and assassins. it almost looks like a morbid chess game, on a much more elaborate scale. 

there are no chairs, and the floor around the tables is worn from footfall, marking the endless pacing from advisors of old and new. hawke follows their ancient steps themself, round and round the table they go. 

until they gently glance up at the soft clearing of a throat--cullen, eyes flicking from bull, giving him a nod of acknowledgement, back to hawke--hawke steels over, their movements ceasing. 

they aren’t the only ones in the room, besides hawke and cullen, leliana skirts in the shadows by tall windows that look over the mountainside, her face turned just to the side so bull can’t begin to read her expression. 

not a moment later, josephine quietly tiptoes in after bull, she closes the doors with a soft thud and darts around him until she’s comfortably situated beside cullen.

“thank you for coming, iron bull.” hawke says, the greeting sounding heavy and formal from their mouth. 

josephine starts forward a step, her face already schooled and welcoming to perfectly placate, as any good diplomat. but she’s cut off entirely before she starts. 

“where do you stand, iron bull?” hawke demands, the blunt stare they pin bull with is unnerving. “i have to know how strong our allies are after...everything.”

 _with the inquisition_ is the right answer. 

but he knows that won’t pass, not with the way he’s been commanding the chargers. he isn’t going to run but he won’t go down with a burning ship when he can smell the blackpowder in the air. he has people to look after.

the sudden power imbalance will pique the interests of the qunari--and more, the weakness like blood in the water. or maybe nothing will come of it, and the qunari will watch from afar as the inquisition sets itself aflame from the inside out, hollow to the core. 

there are too many what-ifs, maybes, and probables. the chargers know to keep their weapons close, and their possessions on their person, just in case. 

“here, with the people.” he says instead, thinking of sera, who won’t run when the fire finally reaches her. of all the others too loyal, too impassioned with the cause to leave. “i’m at your disposal, the deal i made with the inquisitor hasn’t changed.” 

yet.

hawke nods. they don’t look displeased with his response, but how can they? the champion of kirkwall, the one who left their city blown to pieces and burning as well. bull has to wonder if history is in a hurry to repeat itself.

“we-” josephine looks to hawke for moment, waiting for an interruption before she continues “we, that is to say, the inquisition is in a very dangerous place. if the people are to learn the death of their herald there would be mass hysteria. events would fall out of control and in the chaos corypheus and his red templars would gain the upper hand.”

“we cannot let that happen.” cullen says, jaw set and cold. 

“you want me to keep my mouth shut?” bull guesses, raising an eyebrow. 

they can’t seriously believe they can keep the news spreading from adamant. the soldiers and wardens may be stuck out there under the desert sun but rumors always found ways to travel, especially truthful ones. 

“we need your help in easing the way,” josephine corrects, smiling curtly. “the champion is working to establish the work naz left, we can still turn this around in our favor.”

bull masks a disbelieving smile, burying it deep down. he wishes he had given naz more credit for his leadership now; these people are fraying at the edges fast, collision course for failure. 

“we would also have you to lead teams with the rest of the inner circle to deal with more potent dangers out in the countryside, now that the inquisitor isn’t here to manage them himself,” cullen rushes on, “most of the others have already agreed, you can ask them yourself.”

“what about the rifts?” bull asks. there are so many more to close, and with no mark, there is no way to seal them. 

the advisors all share a quiet look, pursed lips tightened into grimances. 

“we’re doing what we can.” hawke says, both hands coming up to rub at their temples gingerly.

which is to say they have no idea what to do. he doesn’t push for more, what else could they have told him, what more could bull do to help? his knowledge of magic was laughable at best, everywhere he looked he was out of his depth.

* * *

they settle into planning quietly, bickering over the maps while bull points out areas he might be of use for. the advisors look tired, their voices are low and they grasp at any information that hawke and him glean for them. 

“there’s a disturbance involving a rift out in the exalted plains, something different to the usual.” cullen murmurs, glancing up from a thick piece of parchment, “a few remaining dalish reported it seems to be spitting out strange fade items.”

“send solas,” iron bull grunts, skin crawling at the very mention of the fade. 

hawke pushes the page into his hands regardless, along with a few other papers detailing the finds from the plains, all painfully describing the location and its surroundings. 

“bring cassandra with you as well.” is all hawke says on the matter.

* * *

when the sun has finally set low in the sky, the advisors shake away the exhaustion clinging to their shoulders, like coming out of a trance. 

bull clears his throat.

“i need to find the rest of the valo kas.” bull says firmly, before they can dismiss him. 

three sets of eyes blink at him with surprise, hawke just quirks an eyebrow up, confused.

“who are the valo kas?” they ask, perplexed. 

“the valo kas were the mercenary company naz belonged to before the conclave.” cullen says nervously, but he has the decency to look guilty. “they did not survive.” 

for a moment bull sees what naz used to see in the commander; a weak will. for a man that proclaimed himself for the inquisition, he still stood tall with the mockery of a templar. 

“might not be, cole didn’t seem to think so.” bull counters, cringing at his own words. he knows how it must sound, to trust in the spirit’s recollection so openly in front of them. “they deserve to know what happened, naz was their brother.” 

was. how quickly did it become second nature to put naz in the ground? the what-ifs into what could have been. 

leliana shakes her head, “if it’s soldiers you need, we can spare a handful of the scouts. but my spies have tasks of their own, i cannot pull them away from their duties for trivial matters.”

they meet eyes briefly, spy to spy. leliana is an impassable boulder of stone, harsh and cold. there’s hurt there too, it must be difficult to lose not one but two heroes in your lifetime. 

she doesn’t move an inch under his scrutiny and he admires her for it. bull concedes, though her flat, emotionless words sting. 

he leaves the room with a mission, and a short list of inquisition agents, their names scribbled hastily in ink. in the dying rays of daylight bull makes his way slowly down the halls, he pauses at the entrance to the gardens, looking through the open archways at the now shriveling plants.

he pulls away, squares his shoulders. time to find the other nazs’.

* * *

he has to run, _you have to get away, but why does it hurt? hurts, and hurts, it hurts_.

the world is upside down, but it isn’t, this isn't real, it’s a dream. but he is surrounded, cut open to his core and surely he has run dry of blood to spill by now, why hasn’t he died yet? _why can’t he die?_

move, do something. 

it’s just a dream. 

is that true? he can’t see anything, his eyes are squeezed shut and he can’t open them, he won’t--he can’t? he doesn’t know. he just runs blindly forward, shying away from the sound of skittering, claws snapping and dragging against stone and flesh.

_there’s a nightmare behind you and if you stop IT WON’T._

it’s okay, it’s okay. 

it’s not.

there’s a light up ahead, he can feel it dancing across his closed eyelids.


	11. there is no courage in flirting with fear

bull wakes with the remnants of a cold sweat still clinging to his skin. he finds himself staring at the roof of canvas over his head, and sighing softly. he rises from the bedroll, shaking off the fatigue that never seems to leave him for long. 

the dawn has yet to break over the fractured mountains in the distance, the sky pink and the air is pleasant, warming him of his chills. the camp around him is quiet, save for the soft breathing and snoring from the various tents.

if it wasn’t for the roaming undead, the two armies in a tense ceasefire, and the general air of despair, the exalted plains-- _the dales_ , could have been a beautiful place. but now it was nothing more then a war torn mess, the earth upturned and giant wooden spikes lined in rows forever, bared like teeth. any peace this countryside had felt had shriveled up and died long ago. 

* * *

a mile from their encampment lies a problem in the shape of a rift. 

the rift sits in front of two statues depicting wolves, a small shrine of incense and ancient looking arrows adorning the stone table between them. the stone statues have an intimidating nature; their huge heads turned up toward the sky in a frozen howl, carved with swirling patterns now half covered in moss and lichen.

solas stalks toward the shrine with a furrowed brow, mouth skewed downward in a grimace. 

"the dalish clan here believes it’s a sign sent from fen'harel," solas scoffs. "more likely this is a simple coincidence."

but bull can’t say he blames them, the sight itself sends goosebumps up his arms. the light of the rift bounces off the cold rock, throwing off strange shadows even in the bright sunshine.

“a new rift out of nowhere?” bull says instead, raising an eyebrow, “that would be a first.”

solas either doesn’t have a witty reply, or he’s deemed it a stupid question to answer. he ignores bull in favor of moving closer to the portal.

unlike most rifts, when they approach it doesn’t spring to life. there are no shades leaping to spill from it’s belly. it shines just a bit brighter, but remains almost as still as the statues around it. 

bull feels out of place here, watching the elf walk circles around the creepy hole in the world. there’s nothing he can do to help besides wait for something to attack them, and with the lack of demons popping out of the rift, they run more of a chance having a weak little undead thing stumbling upon them. so he tries to read the information his scouts have dug up on the valo kas, fishing out the scrap of paper buried deep in his pocket. 

he doesn’t scold cole for quietly reading over his shoulder, he knows how much the fade stuff set the kid off. plus he's not even sure the kid can read.

the lack of news he finds inscribed upon it dampens his spirits; tracking the last place the nazs' had been was easy, but the further they got away from the conclave and up toward tevinter, the less he could find. he knew there had been a scuffle from the reports, but the aftermath remained unclear.

he can't give up now until he finds the people, or the bodies. he won't leave this half completed, not for naz. 

" _ser!_ " 

torn from his thoughts, bull turns 'round, eye catching the sight of a worried inquisition soldier-- _a dwarf, older, she’s afraid, why?_ \--as she points frantically behind herself toward the rift, where it spits and sputters in the peaceful daylight. it almost seems to tremble with anticipation.

bull tenses, fear curling hungrily in his chest. he hates these things, he hates them. but he frees his weapon from his back and tightens his grip until its white knuckled, stomping across the grass and cobble until solas is shoved behind him. 

huge, clawed hands reach through, dark green and oh so familiar. they dig deep into the ground, grasping for purchase as the creature drags itself through the rift and into their world. 

it’s head emerges, revealing rows of teeth and eyes, it’s mouth not bared in the usual menacing grin, but slack. and it’s eyes are void, a strangled guttural noise dying in it's throat. the grip on the earth relaxes as it all but falls through, crumpling into a heap by the time it hits the ground. its body covered in small gaping wounds, and a knife sits embedded in it's spine.

“ _what the fuck?_ ” yelps the dwarf to bull’s right, echoing everyone’s thoughts succinctly. 

nothing moves for a tense breath besides the rift, which twitches and rolls in the air. the shrine behind it aglow in it’s shining light, wolf statues’ shadows creeping along the shattered stone bricks and overgrown roots, like they were trying to swallow everything they touched. all birdsong and bushlife chatter coming to a deadly silence. 

slowly, with the careful steps of a soldier trained in caution, cassandra approaches the shade, using the sharp point of her sword to knock it on it’s side. 

“it’s...dead.” cassandra says, perplexed. 

she jumps back as the rift flickers again, convulsing like it’s about to vomit. 

a hand shoots out, smaller, covered in blood, both red and blackish green. it grasps at the air with a desperation bull's never seen from a demon or shade alike. 

cole lunges forward, his hands grasping, pulling with a might disproportionate to his lithe, roguelike form. the rift seems to light up in his close presence, growling like a demon itself.

it’s almost blinding when cole stumbles backwards, a body falling across his lap.

“i found him,” cole calls. 

bull is close enough to see the figure is no demon. 

“oh, _fuck._ ” he breathes. 

because there are two horns, still painted in chipped red, decorated for battle. there’s heavy plates torn asunder, leather ripped down to skin and then some. there’s the inquisitor--naz; broken, unmoving, still. 

_gasping_ \--sucking in breaths as if he’s been drowning for oxygen. hands clenching so tightly to cole’s arms that they make the metal guards squeal in protest. a garbled noise escapes naz’s throat, unintelligible and rising in panic until it’s a shriek that pierces the air, rattling around in bull’s head--it sounds like an animal in pain. in a sudden flash of movement he lashes out at cole, stabbing down against his chest. 

“cole!” solas shouts. 

it’s a mad struggle to part the two, naz kicks and screams and bites, but bull grabs his arms and keeps him pinned to his chest for as long as he can. he tries to talk to him, practically begging naz to calm down, _it’s just me, it’s me!_ but the whites of his eyes flare bright and there is no recognition, only fear. 

bull is strong, but naz fights against his grip with no self preservation, bending his own arms until bull drops him before he dislocates or breaks them. the moment they stop touching him, naz goes limp on the ground, apparently knocking himself unconscious.

bull pants, heart _thump, thump,_ thumping a song in his chest. 

cole pokes at his own chest curiously, but there is no wounds to be seen, just smears of naz’s own blood on the metal shoulder guards. 

“he thought he had his knife,” cole muses in a quiet tone, almost completely unfazed if it wasn’t for the slight tremor in his hand. “he left it in the demon, but he forgot--he didn’t remember me, he was so scared. he wanted to kill me.” 

solas shoots cole a concerned frown, his eyes drifting down to the inquisitor’s still body. 

“could it be possession?” cassandra asks, her sword drawn, tensed up for a battle. “how did he know we would be here--at this exact rift?”

no one says anything because they have no answers, just a bloodied body at their feet. 

bull leans down, carefully scooping the form of naz into his arms, all too aware of how fragile he feels now. 

"let's get him back to camp." bull says, as firmly as he can, trying to pull his voice back into neutrality as warm blood starts to drip against his skin from where he holds onto naz.

* * *

to say the next few days pass in agonizing slow motion would be an understatement.

naz’s injuries are worse then they had realized, while he’s battered and covered in bruises and gashes, every inch of him is torn apart; his left foot is a gaping wound, a huge chunk of flesh just, missing. the exposed muscle and bone shredded and already turned a blackish color, stinking of death. 

his hands hang limp off his cot, they drip with blood, thick and beginning to congeal where he's missing most of his pinkie and ring finger. bull tries to crack a joke that they’ll almost match, but it falls flat even to himself.

the inexperienced and underprepared field medics scramble to stabilize naz until reinforcements from the nearest fort arrive, with no way of safely bringing the inquisitor back to skyhold. in the meantime they can do nothing but wait.

naz stays in various states of unconsciousness after the first night; he had woke and thrashed himself into a frenzy, snarling and screaming, worsening his wounds with every toss. any bit of intelligence seemed to have vanished and been replaced with terror driven instincts.

from then on he’s knocked out via magic, and in the brief intervals of wakefulness he’s held down as he cries.

cassandra is always there when he’s awake, her eyes closed with concentration as she mutters a mantra under her breath. curious blue light flickering out from her hands to naz in methodical rotations.

whatever she does, it doesn’t seem to calm him. 

iron bull grits his teeth as naz calls for his tama, then for the other nazs’, and when all else fails him, he calls out for bull.

if there was a demon pulling the strings inside him it must be especially cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sure he's fine


	12. to prove you're alive

on the second night sera arrives with a small army of medics and surgeons at her heels, her eyes are tired, dark circles shadowing her face. though everyone looks exhausted nowadays. 

she stomps through the encampment, her head pivoting from tent to tent with anxiety until she spots bull.

“ _you better not be taking the piss with this._ ” she says as she marches up to him. her lip wobbles, but she threatens with a trembling finger all the same.

she sits beside naz for hours, chattering away about anything and everything with little room to draw breath, like she’s afraid if she stops he’ll drift away from her again. her hands run restlessly; squeezing his hands, messing up his hair even brushing it out of his eyes when she’s done. 

bull fills her in as best he can in her distracted state, sera directs questions to naz, as if he’s in any state to answer them, so bull does it for him and tries to not lose his mind.

she refuses to leave his side until the healers forcibly kick the both of them from the tent as naz descends into another spiral of howling, his hands reaching for her even in his daze.

a healer approaches bull hours later with a grim, apologetic expression. she dons an apron that might have once been beige or white, but is now stained dark red with viscera. 

“we need your help holding him down.” she says, nervously ringing her fingers. 

the foot has to go, pieces already begin to slough off, blackened with decay. the healers can’t seem to think of a way to spare the surviving flesh so there’s no choice but amputation. bull’s fingers itch unpleasantly at the mention, a years old phantom pain resurfacing. this was going to suck. 

there are ways to magically numb flesh, and balms to aid it. both are in limited supply, despite the reinforcements they received. so naz’s screams are muffled by cloth shoved between his teeth, but the sound is plain as day in the quiet morning.

bull grabs his shoulders, the thin fabric of his shirt is soaked through with sweat and he writhes under him, pulling away as hard as he can, eyes rolled up into the back of his head.

he closes his eye through the worst of it--hears the wet thud, hears the crying screams turned to sobs and pleads, then eerie silence--and feels like a coward. 

cole’s there waiting for him when he escapes for the breath of fresh air. he kindly offers to make him forget the pain and bull can’t for the life of him guess if the spirit’s referring to him or naz.

unfortunately, sera is within hearing range when cole speaks, and the resulting fight between the two is enough to drive the sound from bull’s mind afterward for the time being.

* * *

on the third night, naz’s heart stops.

bull jolts awake to the sound of panicked shouts and all but sprints from his cot. the fires have died down to embers, leaving the camp in near darkness. so he can see the flash of lightning--small, condensed to the size of a fist--flash clearly from inside naz’s tent.

his sword is in his hand and he doesn’t think in his hazy state-- _since when did he become this easy to startle?_ \--as he charges in.

he wishes he hadn’t.

he breaches the tent as the lightning makes contact with naz’s chest, sending his limp body spasming into shocks. a group of panicked mages surround him, all familiar in inquisition uniform, shouting and commanding the healers without sparing the slightest glance in bull’s direction. 

cole hovers in a corner, out of place yet not. 

bull has seen and done many things; a lot of good and bad. he’s lost an eye to a flail, he’s seen his comrades gutted and killed before his eyes. he’s seen the sky torn asunder and demons roam the countryside to tear families to pieces. 

and he sees naz’s head lulling back, lifeless and glassy eyed, and bull is rooted to the spot and somehow it's _worse_ then everything; watching over and over as the magic tries to find purchase between his ribs, to respring his heart. 

_this can’t happen again, it can’t end like this._ it’s all he can think, his own heart beating fast and terrified. they just got him back, _bull just got him back,_ he was supposed to be _strong_. 

he’s pushed to the side as solas rushes to help, bull barely notices the elf falling into rhythm swiftly, magic caressing up his arms, ethereal. 

“you can’t help him now,” cole says, appearing out of nowhere to tug bull out and away from the tent. “it’s okay, he’s breathing again.”

* * *

naz’s lucidity starts to return to him after that, but it’s a slow coming thing. although the closest thing they have to a templar is cassandra, he’s watched carefully for possession. 

bull waits until the sky darkens, dusk painting the trees in orange and rosy pink. watching the soldiers mingle with the tired nurses and medics, finally taking a moment to breath and eat. but bull leaves them to their companionship, making his way past the groups settled around the campfires, he almost feels like he’s sneaking, which is ridiculous. he didn’t need permission or anything to visit naz. they were friends. 

were they friends? the thought stops bull. he knows friends that fuck and kiss but those were clear cut and usually negoiated, but nothing seemed that easy with naz. 

he finds himself in front of naz’s tent before he can think anymore on it.

cassandra sits ramrod straight in front of the canvas door, her eyes closed and for a minute bull thinks she’s asleep before she cracks an eye open, her head tilts ever so slightly in his direction. 

“he’s been asking for you.” she says curtly, with a nod back behind her. shuffling to a better position--perfect for guarding, she can see the entire camp from there, no one can sneak up on her--and closes her eyes again. 

the tent is lit with lanterns, casting the canvas in gentle, twinkling golden light. tables upon tables of herbs and medicine line the soft walls, along with blood covered tools, sharp and gleaming. bull is thankful the healers have cleared out for the moment, leaving the bed of blankets and pillows in front of him in plain view. 

sera is nestled under a blanket, curled tightly to naz’s side, half falling out from her chair. she’s dead asleep and from the looks of it, she was in desperate need of it. 

naz is awake, quietly carding his fingers through sera’s tangled hair, smoothing it with methodical repetition. it’s the first time in days bull has seen him, and the images that play on repeat in his mind--naz writhing, pained, limp, dead and lifeless--fade into the background. 

“y’let them chomp my foot off.” naz says the moment he notices bull, and the tone of pure scandalization almost makes him laugh at the absurdity of it. 

naz looks...better; frankly, he looks as if he’s been through a slaughterhouse and back again but there’s life in his eyes, and better yet, he meets bull’s eyes warmly, with recognition and care. 

it makes something stir in bull’s chest, something small and content, it feels like sunshine.

every inch of his skin is a mottled purple, black and yellow and the bandages around his leg are soaked through with blood. he still pulls on a weak smile, though the only emotion behind it is the ever present exhaustion and pain. 

“you let something tear your foot off in the first place.” he quips back, as _if_ everything was fine, as if bull hasn’t...something. bull brushes the thoughts away.

naz twists his face up in displeasure, wincing as it pulls on healing cuts. 

“i don’t remember it,” naz says, with a glance downward, “i remember it hurt, but i wonder which did it--the shades or the nightmare...”

the hairs on the back of bull’s neck raise at the easy way naz mentions of the nightmare, and he shuffles uncomfortably. he feels oddly grateful he never got to see the demon, but at the same time the unknownness of the monster haunts his thoughts. 

naz watches bull in the same curious way he always does; a careful once over, scanning bull from head to toe, always, always searching.

“where am i?” naz asks, while a welcome change of subject, there’s a cold guardedness to his voice that stops bull in his tracks.

“the exalted plains.” bull answers, pulling a stool right up to the side of his makeshift bed, close enough that his knees just about touch naz’s blanketed side, though he doesn’t quite dare reach out. the contact is reassuring, feeling his breath rise and fall. 

“why am i _here?_ what about adamant?”

bull frowns, unease creeping in like a familiar friend. 

“naz, it’s been nearly weeks since then.” he says, carefully, “we won, the wardens stood down.”

“and hawke? alistair? did they survive?” naz leans forward as much as he can, there’s a sudden thrum of energy coursing through him, for a moment bull’s worried he’s about to try and get up. 

“yeah boss, they’re fine.” 

naz deflates, falling back against his pillows. his hands cover his face and he starts laughing, quiet, strangely unhappy sounds.

"naz?" bull almost puts out his hand to still him, but thinks better of it. 

"i’m fine. i'm _happy_ , i am." naz says, maniacally combing his fingers through his hair. "i got them out, both of them! can you believe it? two of the most important people in history, and i got them out of the fade. they didn’t have to die, not for me." 

"you almost died." bull says, and the anger that spills out surprises him, hot and selfish, _why did you leave me?_

"did you bury jana?" naz asks abruptly, like he’s not even listening to bull. 

he stares expectantly, and his eyes shine in the candle light. 

"i don’t know." 

"you remember her then? remember what i told her? join the wardens," he laughs, clutching at his chest in pain, his little movements jostling sera slightly. "she’s the last one, i’m not letting that happen again. no one else dies because of me." 

but they will. bull knows, and naz knows. 

“i don’t want you to die again.” bull says instead, the words aren’t right, and it feels lacking. and he shouldn’t even have to say something like that, but naz looks at him like he’s stabbed him through the heart so maybe it was the right thing to say. 

naz holds out his hand, bandaged and missing fingers and shaking. but he holds it out openly, with a careful expression that’s all too tender and nervous. he tries to hide from the fire light but bull can see the tears threatening to fall.

when bull instinctively reaches out to him, naz laces their fingers together.

 _i care, can’t you see it?_ but bull holds his tongue, this moment is fragile, there’s tension in naz’s broken body, that unspoken fear that always seems to be painfully directed at him, something raw and engraved deep down that he can’t see to break.

naz squeezes his fingers tightly, “i'm sorry, i can’t promise i won’t, bull.”


	13. there are...consequences in life

naz is forced into bed rest for the next couple of weeks, though he does not handle the confinement well; several times bull watched healers and cassandra alike drag him out of the tavern, and back to his room like some sort of petulant child, even after his insistence that he rested better in the sunny alcove of sera’s room. 

naz rejects his crutches, hissing and bristling like a disturbed alley cat. bull watches him fall flat on his face five or so times before he begrudgingly takes them back, glaring venomously at anyone that dares even glance sideways at him--though sera seems to be allowed to rib him mercilessly about it.

the first prosthetic foot they bring him is showy; it’s composed of polished wood, finely tanned leather, and dazzling metal, and it _gleams_ under the torchlight.

it looks like something a noble might wear while barking orders at peasantry and naz sneers at it with disdain, despite vivienne’s imploring side glances. 

so another is brought in. this one is simplistic, yet sturdy. and after a week or so of usage, naz takes it off and starts to tinker away with it, with the help of dagna; they carefully add extra support and spikes to the heel until it’s more a weapon then a false limb. though he does allow vivienne’s request to spruce it up with some tasteful engravings, as a sort of compromise. 

there isn’t much they can do for his missing fingers, and naz tries to brush it off as if it doesn’t bother him. 

it does. 

yet naz still returns to his usual self, snappish and passionate in equal measures. he bemoans the fate of his gardens, which have withered and died without his care. though he thankfully turns his ire toward other things, like executing erimond. 

bull jokes about his forming pattern of killing magisters and earns himself an elbow in the ribs and a smile.

* * *

bull is out the front door of the tavern and halfway up the stairs of one of the towers toward the battlements--he’s taking the long way around to leliana’s room to drop in on cullen, hoping to catch a word with the man--when he pauses, then steps quietly back against a wall as he hears hushed voices. 

_familiar_ voices.

a peek around the corner reveals hawke perched upon haphazardly stacked crates with varric between their knees, face hidden in the crook of his neck, but their fingers are iron white around the back of his shirt. they sway there, anchored to each other like they both might disappear otherwise. 

the embrace looks fragile, something worn over with time like a favorite coat, too intimate for just anyone to witness and bull feels almost uncomfortable to have seen. but it’s not enough to stop him from eavesdropping, he is a spy, afterall. 

hawke mumbles something so quietly into the fabric of varric’s collar that bull can’t pick it up, and varric smiles, genuine and openly. 

“can’t hear you, lover.” he chuckles, gently caressing the side of hawke’s head, while subtly checking over their still healing wound with care. 

“come home?” hawke tries again, just barely picking their head up off his shoulder. 

varric’s mouth twists down, and he heaves a sigh. he doesn’t tense up in hawke’s arms, he does the opposite; bull can see him relax into them, easing into the shelter he’s found.

hawke doesn’t press him for an answer, just rocks there, fingers drumming an aimless beat out against the fabric. 

“are you asking me to?” he says carefully.

there’s a pause, and this one is tense and unforgivably heartbroken.

“no, i know you can’t, so i won’t ask that of you. i know how you like your heroes, varric.”

hawke lifts back and out of his arms, despite the wounded expression it earns them. they smile a watery smile, sniffling slightly. it’s one of the first times bull’s seen hawke with their guard down, and he wishes he hadn’t. 

“but i can’t stay here with you.” 

varric opens his mouth, whether to argue or plead, bull doesn’t know, but he shuts it wordlessly just as quickly. 

“i’ll meet you at home, when all this demon business is over.” varric says instead, the ringing of a promise in his voice. 

hawke nods, and they squeeze his shoulder gently before ghosting away down the stairs. they make eye contact with bull, and whatever kindness had harbored there was now replaced with a thrashing storm of indescribable emotion. 

they don’t say a word, and the moment passes as quickly as it had come, before bull can blink they’re gone.

* * *

naz flails gracelessly around in the center of the sparring ring, only once the sun has set and the sky is dark. he tries to practice the basics, simple stances and lunges but his balance is off and he stumbles with every other step. he slumps against the fence, panting though he’s only been at it for less then an hour, bull knows because he’s been openly staring since he walked into the courtyard. 

if naz notices his presence, he never calls him on it, too busy leveling his own breathing. bull is too busy being distracted by the way naz looks silhouetted in moonlight to be concerned by the way naz shakes before resuming his practices. 

it becomes a regular thing; every night he sneaks away to train, dancing the same relentless pattern, barely coming up for air. and every night bull observes him struggle and gasp.

until he’s inevitably spotted.

“iron bull, join me?” naz calls, it’s a request, not an order.

bull ambles over. it’s a nice night; the sky is clear and full of stars, the cool mountain air has warmed in the past few days, so the breeze against his skin is pleasant rather then the usual biting. 

naz doesn’t seem interested in calling him over to spar though, he relaxes against a flimsy fence post that splinters a bit against his weight. so bull settles next to him, just a tad too close so their arms touch, just gently pushing his limits, and to his pleasure naz doesn’t shy away.

they both sit there in companionable silence, just the creaky sounds of the castle behind them and the whistle of wind. 

“none of this feels real, no matter how much i try, i--” naz murmurs suddenly, his voice catching, “--i can’t help but feel like something’s... _wrong?_ ” 

bull can’t help it; he straightens up, leveling naz with a stare. 

“it’s not _demons_.” naz snaps, teeth bared up at bull incredulously.

“how would _you_ know?” bull challenges, holding naz’s angry gaze. 

naz snarls wordlessly, brushing past him to pace the worn earth in unsteady circles. his footsteps leave little flickering flames of gold and yellow flames, burning out as quickly as they appear. 

bull frowns uncomfortably, eyeing the blatant show of magic with unease. 

naz catches his eye, and his sudden anger deflates out of him. he lets out a long, whistling breath and the dancing flames at his heels fade away until the only light comes from the stained glass windows of the castle and the shining moon and stars yet again. 

“i know-- _i know_ how this will sound,” naz says, with a false calm forced over his voice “but iron bull, i am asking you to _trust_ me, this is different.”

bull bites back his instant response; _like you trust me?_

but he studies the plains of naz’s face, taking in every tired line, every emotion that flits across it unguarded and open. naz is scared; he’s _always_ scared, and judging by the circles under his eyes he’s struggling to sleep again--but he doesn’t want to fight, he’s looking to bull for comfort. 

his entire _body_ leans toward him, bull realizes with a start. he bumps his head gently against bull’s arm, his skin is cold to the touch and bull holds his breath for a split second as he slowly wraps an arm around him, watching naz practically drink in the physical contact.

“tell me it’s nothing?” naz says, his playful tone falling flat. 

“you can handle the fade, you can handle anything,” bull says firmly, and he believes his words.

* * *

“i hate this place.” naz says, cheerfully swatting at the buzzing insects circling his head, his hair a frizzy mess pulled back into a short ponytail. the humid air of the emerald graves cloys at their throats, and each breath is a heady drag through the lungs. 

naz staggers backwards away from a high marble pillar, fractured and slowly becoming a host of all sorts of moss and other greens. he teeters unsteadily for a moment, before regaining balance with a nervous glance around to see if anyone else had noticed. 

bull just snorts humorlessly, barely paying much attention.

the chateau gave him the creeps; the silence of the place had a weight to it, a tension that their every step seemed to disturb. undead had already attacked them in the halls, moaning, frenzied corpses rising from the ground to lurch sickeningly in their direction. and while they had been easy to dispatch, they seemed near endless. the more they cut down, the more peeked around the corners, from behind the bookshelves. 

_a haunted mansion_ , varric had said, though his usual casual nature was subdued. perhaps something to do with the fact hawke had left skyhold only a day ago. either way, the dwarf didn’t seem in the mood to crack any jokes, which left them all in somber silence as they roamed the gold gilded halls and rooms of the chateau d’onterre. 

“so a little mage girl was locked up in a tower--or in this case, a fancy house,” naz drawls, leafing through a small book scrawled in handwriting. “what could go wrong?”

“quite literally everything, in my experience.” varric says, smacking an undead to the ground with the butt of his crossbow. 

true enough, they find themselves standing atop a balcony, looking down as a demon rises in the center of the courtyard, it’s tattered clothes a mere vestige of the dead mage it inhabits, frayed fabric just barely disrupting the surface of water below it. 

the arcane monstrosity howls up at them, and bull casts an unimpressed sideways glance toward naz, who grins back, all teeth.

the fight is tougher then bull expects, the horror holds nothing back in it’s anger, whether or not it was the rage of a little girl or just the demon now was anyone's guess, and not something bull was putting much thought toward. 

he’s too busy holding his own against the creature’s strange strength, bracing with his sword as it tries to claw his face. his boots slide along the grass and he starts to bend backwards as the demon pushes it’s advantage. 

beside him, naz lunges behind it, playing quick and reckless, trying to hack the thing apart before it can do the same to him. he throws his entire body into his swing with a shatteringly loud slam, the warhammer cracking into the pale flesh and rotting robes of the demon. 

it lets out one last sobbing cry, and disappears, leaving a scattering of dust and cloth.

“oh, that was fantastic!” bull shouts delightedly, throwing a blind arm out to pat naz on the back.

naz collapses to the ground with a confused gasp. then another, this one is pained. 

“naz?” bull starts, heart in his throat, grasping naz’s shoulder.

but he doesn’t answer. naz’s hand whips up to his mouth and he gags, a sludge of blood pouring past his lips. and he can’t seem to stop, he hacks and coughs until there’s a puddle in front of him and blackwall and bull have his arms around their shoulders as they rush him from the sunny courtyard. 

“what the devil is going on?” blackwall barks frantically. “you said he was healed!”

“he was!” varric snaps, aiming his crossbow this way and that into the thick foliage of trees as they haul naz back in the direction of the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will i ever let naz catch a break? 
> 
> no.


	14. CADUCEUS

they practically throw naz into a cot, though by then his vomiting has calmed and blood crusts down his chin and throat. he looks around in a daze, his eyes sliding right off the healers fussing around him and landing on bull--as he hovers uncertainly next to naz now that the panic has died down--a dopey look plastered to his face. 

naz pushes a mage away from him, waving them all off weakly as he reaches to gulp down a full skin of water. 

“you said you were fit for outside fieldwork.” bull grumbles, frankly unsure if he should be angry naz seems alright or not.

“i was,” naz slurs, water dripping down his chin and forming little pink lines where it mixes with the blood. “mostly.” 

“ _naz._ ”

“right, shit, sorry, bad joke. i was only off by like a day.” naz coughs, grimacing. “i won’t try and die again, that _hurt_. what was that?”

bull sighs, settling down next to naz with a sidelong glance of concern, but he’s met with a small reassuring smile, so he relaxes ever so slightly. 

“oh, that was your body shutting down.” a healer pipes up, startling the both of them. she’s a human woman by the name of grey, a person bull had seen one too many times back in the exalted plains but never really spoke to as she was too busy trying to keep naz breathing. “i’ve never seen anything quite like this, honestly it’s _fascinating_.”

“oh _good_ , i'm fascinating, bull.” naz gripes, wiping gingerly at the blood stuck to his skin.

grey _laughs_ , it's only just _slightly_ unhinged. 

“i think something went in and twisted all your adorable little insides up, did some serious damage in there. if you want my professional opinion--which you should, obviously, you should stop doing anything that puts your body under serious stress, like fighting.”

bull’s head snaps up to stare at her with surprise, a sinking feeling settling over him.

“ _what?_ ” naz says, all his grim humor stripped from his tone, leaving nothing but shock.

“ _‘should’_ is honestly putting it lightly; if you go around going that enough times, you’ll probably die.” grey says, “or worse!” 

the woman darts up to him, her movement seems far too smooth and sudden that naz doesn’t have a chance to jerk away when her hand grips his chin firmly as she turns his head this way and that. her eyes track him like she isn’t really listening, pulling at his skin critically, dragging her thumb and forefinger through the mess of blood now sticky on his face.

“i can’t _not_ fight, i’m the bloody inquisitor--i’m a reaver, that’s how i fight!”

now that he has stilled, bull can't help but notice there is a _familiarity_ to the darkened color mixing with the blood, but he can't quite put his finger to what it is.

“well, unless you want to end up as a _dead_ inquisitor, i’d recheck that.” grey chides.

“then _fix it._ ” naz commands, drawing himself up to his full height, or as much as he can propped up on the bedroll, looking very much like he might suddenly snap his teeth around grey’s curious fingers. 

grey takes a step back and looks from him to bull incredulously, though she doesn’t look the slightest bit intimidated by her angry patient. she lights a lamp, and turns to her papers a few feet away.

“whatever did this to you must have used magic. i have no _idea_ what _i_ could do, even if i could dig around inside you.” 

naz’s eyes go panicked, and his breathing picks up, shallow and fast. he turns his attention to bull, as if he could do something in this situation besides look on with helpless shock. the only thing he can do is grimly place where he had seen the ichorous substance drip drying down naz's throat; fade green under the new light.

_it’s not demons, bull._

he’s aware the doctor is still speaking, saying something or other about _rest_ and _relaxation_ but neither bull nor naz are paying any mind. 

naz looks close to passing out when he stands, a cold sheen of sweat glistening against his skin, and he sways worryingly; he looks frightened, like an animal about to bolt and before bull can even open his mouth to calm him, he does just that. 

grey shares a look with bull, though hers is much more curious then concerned. 

“is he always like this?” she asks. 

bull doesn’t bother to reply, just stalks out of the tent after naz.

thankfully, it seems he couldn’t get very far. bull finds him hunched over an old barrel, half melded into the ground and covered in moss. naz retches into it, but this time bull can tell it's just bile, not blood and ichor. it’s far enough away that the bustle of movement in the camp does nothing to cover the wounded sounds naz tries to stifle. 

“boss..” bull starts, tempering his voice into a soft, controlled tone but naz startles nonetheless.

naz scrambles away, sucking in lungs full of air harshly, choking on them as he coughs and gags. he looks small, powerless, and completely wild; even as tears of pain streak down his chin. his arms clutch tight around his stomach, and as bull edges closer they start to spark and crackle with energy.

“come back, naz.” bull says, he raises his hands passively in front of him, going to a crouch on instinct. “we’ll figure it out, just come back.” 

“you don’t understand--i have to protect _everyone_ , bull.” naz heaves, breath wheezing out past his lips. “i have to- _i have to--_ ”

he rambles uselessly, his voice fades until it’s just a bare whisper and it’s clear naz isn’t fully there anymore by the way his body goes slack and eyes unfocused. so bull tentatively takes his hand, and when he doesn’t breathe a protest, carefully pulls until naz untangles from his defensive posture and ends up half in bull’s lap. 

it’s uncomfortable, the dirt is damp and there are all manner of biting insects making a feast of them. their combined body heat is near unbearable in the humid, hot air. there’s a stick or something digging sharply into bull’s thigh but if he shifts to move naz makes a wounded sound and golden flames lick up his arms. bull suppresses a flinch but they don’t seem to hurt, strangely, and they die down almost instantly when bull soothes him with a firm hand on his back. 

bull doesn’t understand what’s happening to naz, it’s all over his head, but he’s seen the trauma warfare brings, and this is something he’s both seen and experienced first hand. so he takes a gamble and holds naz closer to his chest, manoeuvring his arms around him, hoping that the physical contact was appreciated and not about to send him down a further spiral. 

naz doesn’t acknowledge him, or anything else around him, besides his fingers occasionally squeezing a little and then going lax, repeating this seemingly random pattern. 

they sit there for a long time, or at least it feels that way. 

bull’s honestly a little surprised a stray soldier hasn’t walked into them, but then he cranes his head to the side and he spots grey standing several yards off, waving off anyone that got too close. he’s grateful in the least, and makes a mental note to thank her, when out of earshot of naz.

at some point naz goes boneless, and bull listens to his breathing even out. he isn’t really sure if he’s asleep, but it wouldn’t surprise him, he’s had a long day. it’s simple to lift him up, almost too easy, and bull realizes with a twisting feeling that naz has lost a lot of weight. his body is smaller, fragile. 

this time he’s gently settled into a bed and bull cleans the mess off his face and neck, tracing two thin lines that sit right against his throat, the raised, scarred skin silvery white. he wonders how many other close scrapes with death naz has encountered, how many close calls and almost got yous’ before he ended up here; a humid jungle swarming with red templars and a marked hand that opened holes in the world. 

how much would he take back, if he could?

* * *

naz’s awareness of his sudden disability seems to make everything he does _worse_. 

upon arriving back at skyhold he forces everyone to spar with him--cullen, cassandra, even krem, insistently snapping that with enough training, if he was stronger, he could force this strange affliction into submission. it always ends the same way; naz finally staggering into a fence post or to the ground, gagging and coughing until he’s blue in the face and in the foulest of moods.

it’s clearly not working, and eventually the more headstrong medics come out to tell him to cut it out. not that it stops naz, nothing stops naz when he’s in a rut.

though it’s about time _that_ changed. 

he interrupts a particularly sad bout of ‘training’, naz is alone and he’s going through his paces at lightning speeds and he’s messing up with every other swing but he doesn’t seem to notice. when bull steps close enough to get in his way he almost smacks the dull wooden sword into bull’s arm, and stops with a confused blink, like he hadn’t noticed bull walk up to him at all. 

these episodes have grown more frequent; naz is there, present and alive, and then, like something’s caught his attention, he stares off into that middle distance. it’s a trancelike state that the others have learned to work around, oftentimes just waiting until the spell ends and then resuming whatever business had to be done as if nothing had happened, and for the most part naz doesn’t even seem to notice the difference. 

but he’s started to fade a little, growing less and less present, spending more and more time in his own room-- _he hates his room, it’s too far away from his friends._ bull doesn’t think it has anything to do with the fade problem, but he doubts it helped this...condition. 

naz simply starts to turn the other way and carry on his training, clearly not caring whether bull was there or not. it reminds bull eerily of the tranquil mages, their droning gazes and lack of self, and _alright_ , this had to stop.

" _hey,_ " bull grumbles, concerned. he throws an arm out and grasps naz by the wrist, squeezing gently.

the reaction he gets is near instantaneous; a little jump, like he’s snapping back into place, and then he melts. his whole body leans into bull’s, and he looks up at him with a heavy expression that bull doesn’t dare decipher, not while he’s in this pitiful state of confusion. but there's something there, something _interesting_ , and bull files it away in his mind, marking the folder for later investigation. 

"let's get some food." he says, suddenly very glad krem isn't anywhere in sight to rib him for being a mother hen, and tugs naz over experimentally, because he’s _curious_. 

naz follows him numbly, being led along like a dog, which wouldn’t make him pleased at all to know so bull adjusts his grip until he’s holding naz’s hand instead. 

he lets go of naz outside the tavern and quickly cuts through the crowd inside to fetch some plates, he doesn’t even spare a second thought to what he’s being handed and cabot shoots him a scathing look as he flings some coin down before retreating back out. 

naz hasn’t wandered too far, thankfully, so he has little trouble leading him up and out onto the battlements, hoping the crisp, fresh air of the mountains would do his head some good. bull pushes a plate into naz’s hands, and settles down against the cold brick wall with his own. 

the silence is companionable, and bull only has to prod naz into removing his cloth face mask and to eat a few times before he does so, seemingly on autopilot. by the time his plate is cleared he seems more focused, and he spins on his heels, glancing around as if confused how he got there. 

“you good, boss?” bull checks, instantly catching naz’s attention. 

naz frowns, and almost drops the plate he was holding trying to cross his arms. 

“how long was i...like that?” he asks, hesitantly. 

“a while.” bull says. 

“ah.” naz’s frown deepens, his trouble plainly inscribed on his face. 

“you don’t have to talk about it, you know.” bull says slowly, his mind unhelpfully flashes back to a moment spent in the darkness of night, entangled legs and a vulnerability he hasn’t seen from naz since and definitely not something he’s keen on forcing out. 

“it’s--fine. it’s not a secret, really.” naz shakes his head, “it’s just ridiculous, something i never got to shake off.”

he sighs, frustrated, and his breath puffs visibly in the chilled air. 

“sometimes i just, i dunno, stop feeling everything?” he tries, eyes darting down to look at bull and then everywhere but. “like i disconnect from everything around me and i _stop_. guess ‘m glad it’s never happened in a fight, that would suck.”

naz laughs, brittle and mean, and bull doesn’t join him. 

“used to have the others for help,” he continues, quietly. “they always seemed to know how to get me back home.” 

he can’t hide the bitterness there, and from his hollow expression, he doesn’t care if bull hears it. the tension hangs there, palpable in the cold air. 

“could i help at all?” bull asks.

naz blinks at him with surprise, like he never considered it a possibility. his frown deepens and he purses his lips critically. bull looks away, he can feel the unspoken distrust hanging between them awkwardly, and hopes to spare them both the discomfort. 

“you could... _try_.” naz murmurs, barely audible. 

he doesn’t say anything else, not even to explain how bull could help him when his head’s shrouded by fog, so bull takes that as a challenge; a way to prove himself. 

“i should say, uh, while you...weren’t around,” bull starts, “i started looking for the valo kas--your family.”

naz _stares_. 

“i haven’t found anything we didn’t already know yet, but as long as it’s alright with you, i’m going to continue the search. i think i can find them.” bull feels too invested to quit now, but he will, if naz asks him. 

“no, it’s fine, i think.” naz stutters, off balance. 

naz slides down the wall beside bull, their sides pressed up against each other. 

“thanks.” naz blurts, like an afterthought, but he looks genuine enough that bull smiles.

* * *

“my hair’s getting too long.” naz says, apropos of nothing, and quiet enough it’s almost drowned out by the soft din of the herald’s rest.

bull _squints_. 

“no it isn’t.”

it’s a little scruffy, he’ll give him that and maybe he just doesn’t possess a critical eye for it, but his curls flow back behind his head in a very short, tight ponytail, like always. 

“i could use a trim though, _bull_.” naz says pointedly, ignoring his comment. 

his tone is miserably _embarrassed_ , and his eyes won’t meet bull’s, which is odd in it’s own right. he looks viscerally uncomfortable standing there, and despite his best efforts there’s a clear look of want written across his face. not something heated and dark, like most looks bull is used to having thrown his way, it softens the rough edges of naz and it makes him look strangely exposed. 

bull prides himself on his ability to catch a hint, but this one takes a second to click.

“you want some help with that, boss?” he asks, making sure his voice is casual, though his eyes rake over naz sharply.

naz scrunches up his face at that, forcing on a scowl even though the worry and tension fades almost instantly. “ _well_ , if you’re offering...”

so bull finds himself standing with naz kneeling--propped on the stool, he corrects, before his mind can send him down a rabbit hole. because this is a big deal for naz, despite his seemingly relaxed state. 

he takes his time, it’s late in the day and the evening set sunlight fans over the both of them warmly; they’re in the gardens, away from the courtyard and the prying eyes of the comings and goings of skyhold. 

bull runs his fingers through the short, bristly hairs at the back of naz’s neck, and sure, this close he can see it hasn’t been touched up in a while. naz stiffens minutely, then slowly leans back into him with a short hum, going delightfully pliant in bull’s hands. his shirt hangs on his shoulders unbuttoned, showing off the expanse of his chest and stomach, scarred and blemished and too thin. 

naz has his curls up higher then usual to keep them out of the way, it looks ridiculous and bull bites back a laugh, knowing it would just send naz running for the hills.

bull’s holding a razor in his off hand, turning it over and over, letting it warm in his palm. he tries to stamp down his nerves; he shaves himself and he’s done so for others before, this was no different. _but it was_. 

“is madame de fer going to kill me for doing your hair?” bull asks, nervously glancing around as if the haughty woman was about to appear from behind a giant fungi. but the gardens are strangely deserted. bull suspects sera had something to do with running everyone out for them, probably under the guise of a prank spree. 

naz snorts, “bull, it’s fine.”

bull grumbles unhappily at that, wholly unconvinced, but he gets to work regardless. 

naz jumps when he presses the metal gently to his head and bull freezes, waiting for him to back out, turn tail and run away. but naz unwinds again, muttering _‘could’ve given a warning’_ , and motions for bull to continue.

“have you figured out a workaround for your ‘problem’?” bull asks, breaking the silence. “or are you just gonna continue hitting things and hope for the best?”

naz fidgets like he’s about to turn and scowl at him, but bull holds his head in place sternly. he falls into a rhythm, the methodical drag of the razor against naz’s head, carefully touching up around his ears. it’s nice, there’s a warm feeling that accompanies helping someone he cares for.

“fuck off, bull.” he gripes, though there is worry laced in his words. 

“you could take up the bow, sera would be an excellent teacher,” bull suggests, trying to lighten the mood with a grin. 

“no she would _not_.” naz says incredulously, predictably falling for the bait. “and you saw the last time i used a bow, i almost killed someone and not in a good way!”

“i’m sure solas forgives you for that.”

naz scoffs, but he smiles lightly. 

bull hums as he cuts and trims, a tuneless melody that seems to soothe naz into a calm quiet. he’s careful to not catch the edges of naz’s horns with the razor, and he traces over the newly exposed scars on the back of his head, feeling the uneven skin and bristly short hairs against his fingertip. when bull finishes he gently pulls naz’s hair out of it’s bun, dragging his fingers through the unruly tangles. 

naz practically pushes into his touch, head tilted back with a soft sound, and it’s a little addicting to see him this uncaringly open. bull exhales shortly, gathering up all the loose hair and tying it off into the usual ponytail.

“all done.” bull says. 

naz feels over his work, and nods approvingly. he shrugs his shirt off his shoulders and shakes it free of all the cut hair, swiveling in his chair so he faces bull with a determined look. 

“can i touch you?” he asks, pulling up so he’s propped up on his knees, his shirt discarded and forgotten. 

bull eyes him warily, “why?”

“just--i want to try something, please bull.” naz sighs, his hands are firmly placed on the tops of his knees, he looks desperate but awaiting permission. 

“alright then.” he acquiesces, he almost wants to hold his arms up, like he’s about to be inspected for contraband.

naz reaches up instantly, fingers curling up to touch bull’s shoulders--over his tattoos, up his neck, along his jaw. it’s a soft, barely there touch that almost tickles, and bull would laugh if he wasn’t so distracted by naz’s focused concentration. the dying sunlight catches his freckles in sharp relief, standing out against his skin and lighting up his wide eyes with warmth, and bull is _mesmerized_. 

“can i please--” 

“hell _yes-_ ” 

naz lifts himself up in a rushed motion, planting a hand on bull’s chest and another around the back of his head. his lips smash into bull’s awkwardly, but he pulls back a little to fix it and then it’s _very nice_. 

bull scrapes his fingers through the now cleanly shaved sides of his head with a rumble of approval, he drops the shaving razor and finds where naz’s hand rests on his chest and squeezes. he smiles knowingly when naz sucks in a breath, shivering delightfully and dragging bull even closer to him. 

it’s a worlds’ difference from their first kiss, there is no underlining unease, there are no shaking hands clutching a knife in the dark. it’s softness; a lulling, sweet sensation, even when naz starts to bite at his lips impatiently. 

eventually they will be interrupted by some poor sod sent to fetch naz for a meeting or such, and naz won’t rip himself out of bull’s grasp, but sigh against him and slowly extract himself with reluctance, buttoning his shirt back up as he goes. 

and sera will be waiting at the stairs of the great hall with a big, shit-eating grin and a raised fist for bull to bump. 

but for now they knock over the stool and stumble into a wall, and they’ll carefully avoid stepping on naz’s recovering plants, with no real idea where they’re going and that’s alright, that’s enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone curious what naz alludes to is disassociation


	15. DREAD(nought)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shut up it's not late at all :gun:

they fall into something of an unsteady rhythm.

it’s careless and unspoken--and there should be words, conversations and guidelines, _rules_. bull is working on it, because he suspects naz hasn’t got a single clue what he’s doing here with bull, and bull is having a hard enough time trying to keep up with every fastball naz throws his way. 

a whirlwind of work keeps naz stuck in the war room, but most nights nowadays naz is there in the tavern, cross legged in a chair between krem and him, loudly sharing stories over their meals. the chargers welcome him in happily, poking fun and retelling epic battles of the past, slightly skewed in detail but bull lets them have their fun. he’s busy daydreaming of a different life, one where they find naz before the conclave--or there never needed to be one in the first place--and he becomes a part of the chargers’ little family, prickly or not. 

it’s a nice fantasy. 

there are times in which naz seeks him out, and maybe they’ll talk or eat together but it never goes further then that. naz doesn’t initiate the contact he sought in the gardens again, though he does throw heated glances bull’s way once or twice, and he lingers. but there’s something still lurking in his eyes when bull turns his full attention on him, it holds him back from stepping too close. 

it hurts when naz looks relieved when he backs off.

* * *

bull has to stoop to fit through the doorway into the gardens, his eye travels the expanse of greenery and wildflowers until his gaze lands softly on naz, settled in the earth and completely surrounded by mushrooms. his clothes are stained and worn, and he’s sweating under the midday sun but he still manages to look good--healthier; unburdened by the worlds’ problems here in this safe place he’s forged. 

bull pauses, drinking in the sight and stifling the feelings rising in his chest. his hands tighten around the parchment he holds, and it grounds him to the unfortunate reality. his smile falters, turning into a grimace. he steps forward, waving lightly to draw naz’s attention because he’s learned naz will jump and jerk away if bull manages to _‘sneak’_ up on him. 

naz doesn’t smile often, and he doesn’t right now, but his eyes go softer. he waves back at bull even though he’s not even that far away anymore. there are bees and moths circling his head like a halo, some coming to rest on his horn. 

he glances at the paper bull holds, crooking an eyebrow up at him.

“it’s news from the ben hassrath.” bull starts, direct and to the point. 

naz’s face drops, a look of discomfort claiming his once relaxed expression. bull feels like all the plants around him droop and wilt in unison with him, but that would be stupid. or maybe not, he was a mage afterall, maybe that was a thing.

“what do they want?” naz asks. 

“an alliance.” bull says, and even coming out of his mouth the words sound doubtful, a sentiment naz picks up on instantly.

“do they now? _with us?_ ” naz says, dripping with sarcasm and he turns back to his planting with more aggression then strictly necessary. “the freak tal vashoth leading the renegade semi religious faction?” 

“you aren’t like the tal vashoth the ben hassrath fight.” bull shrugs, though instead of soothing, it earns him a sharp look. “i already told you, if they had a serious problem with it, you would know.” 

naz shoots him a look that screams _i don’t believe you_. 

yet the unease does soften slightly, but doesn’t fully disappear. naz studies him critically, as he’s wont to do and at this point bull just _sighs_ , resigned as he stands there to be scrutinized. he doesn’t have a particularly good feeling about this supposed deal either, but it’s new and strange, and qunari didn’t do new and strange. to him that was something worth investigating, and he says as much.

“i’ll listen to what they have to say,” naz says, carefully-- _doubtfully_ , after a silent moment of deliberation. his hands shake, and he pushes them into the earth to hide them when bull frowns down at him. there’s a smile on his face now, small and sad. “but i won’t promise anything, i don’t trust them.” he continues.

bull nods because that’s as good as it’s going to get and he knows it, and he’s rewarded with an answering smile that’s a little less sad.

* * *

the skies are restless, a storm beginning to break over the cliffside as they approach the meeting point. the rain chills to the bone, but naz definitely doesn’t feel it under his armor; the new plates of metal are thick and heavy, and he looks more like a tower of gunmetal grey then a person. 

bull is...surprised to see gatt again. he looks...better then last he saw him. he has kept that calm air of confidence and his eyes are still wicked sharp and they rake over bull as he greets him, sussing him out for signs of weakness. 

bull grits his teeth and grins widely, all teeth. 

naz dips his head in gatt’s direction, though he makes no move to offer a hand to shake or get closer. his voice rings out a formal greeting in near perfect qunlat, and he rolls their shared language on his tongue, letting the words fall cold and detached, though if gatt notices he doesn’t say a word. he just arches an eyebrow and smoothly continues their mission brief.

bull darts away to talk to the chargers, he doesn’t _fuss_ , though krem might say otherwise. he’s just...worried.

_chargers, horns up._

and that's that.

naz remains unusually quiet as gatt speaks; now leading them further up the hill. his back is rigid and he jumps at every sudden burst of noise brought from the oncoming storm. bull almost wants to reach out to him, offer some sort of comfort, but that would be foolish. especially in front of gatt, who watches his movements like a hawk. 

as it stands naz doesn’t even give him the option either; keeping his companions between bull and himself. the impassive slate of metal gives up none of his thoughts, it’s a little too familiar to their first meeting here on the coast.

every so often cassandra leans forward to grip naz’s wrist, grasping the gauntlet tightly as she mutters under her breath. some of the tension eases off naz’s shoulders when she does so, and he starts forward with renewed conviction.

there isn’t much time to think about it, much more pressing matters make themselves known in the form of venatori.

the camps made up of harsh black metal warped into vicious looking barricades, with no apparent places to rest besides an occasional bare boned tent and campfire. it doesn’t take much for them to notice their approach, hooded heads whipping around to pinpoint where they dart around the blockades. razorsharp intelligence gleams in the cultists’ eyes, tinged with bloodlust, a forever hungry look impressed upon their angry faces as they descend upon them.

bull spends a concerning amount of the fight watching naz. while he fights unflinchingly, there is a strain to his movements, each swing’s momentum sends him a little further then it should. he falls back behind solas and cassandra to lean against his hammer’s pommel, and if it wasn’t for the helmet, bull would guess he was gasping for air, gagging on fade bile. 

the high stakes of the battle are unknown to gatt, and it drives him to fight harder, and end it quickly. before gatt starts to notice, before naz fully collapses under the pressure.

at one point naz stumbles, his misstep sending him backwards into a tree and the venatori leap at once, like blood in the water. 

bull takes a stab to the shoulder blocking what would have been a rather devastating blow to naz’s head. he guts the cultist cleanly through, barely listening as the man screams and pleads, moving onto the next. this one has sense, she starts to back away from bull as he shields naz behind his own mass--but it’s not enough to save her. 

it’s almost like seheron, in a way. with gatt ghosting through the cultists, his blades moving silently and slicing flesh with ease. the rain comes down like a sheet, soaking their party through to the bone, stinging lightly as it runs down his wounds. it keeps him grounded in reality, it’s not seheron because it’s too cold, the air is crisp and while it might smell of blood, there is a distinct difference that he clings to in his head. 

bull is bloody and panting as he rips through the last venatori soldier, letting the body drop to the ground with a soft thud without a second glance. naz crawls back onto his feet, taking bull’s offered hand up. he doesn’t say a word, but his helmet tilts slightly to look at gatt with a strong air of nervousness.

they summon the dreadnought closer, the furious war machine churns already rabid waters into a frothing spray. an explosion of light shoots from it’s maw and bursts through the grey sky, striking the other ship down. it sparks the fire already simmering in bull’s veins. he jeers with twisted delight, ignoring the past unease he felt as the dreadnought did what it did best; destroy. 

it doesn’t last for long.

the venatori that creep up the beach are numerous and they swarm forth, marching a steady path toward the chargers, and they’re too far away-- _bull’s too far away_ , he can’t help them--he could but--

“they need to stay put.” gatt snaps, his eyes darting between bull and the dreadnought, and then naz, daring him to challenge.

 _but--_

but what? this was the way of the qun, _he knew this_. a qunari wouldn’t hesitate, this wasn’t a difficult choice. what are less then a dozen lives compared to the dreadnought’s crew, the hundreds held in its belly? 

they were _his_. 

bull starts to speak but to his horror his words abandon him. he can do nothing but stare helplessly as the two pieces of his entire world pull him taunt in opposite directions, with gatt on his one side practically shouting at him to tell his men to hold. on his other naz is silent, his gaze fixated on the dreadnought below. 

_they won’t make it if they do_. 

naz puts a hand on his arm, the armored gloves bite into his flesh and bring his attention into hyper focus, staring into the unyielding gaze of that helmet. 

“ _iron bull,_ ” naz tries, but his voice is nearly totally drowned out by the rush of wind and rain, and the dull scream of venatori and chargers in the distance. he lets go of bull and it hurts, but he fumbles numbly with the strap under his chin and around his neck until the helm is discarded without a second thought. 

his face is the same face bull has looked upon for weeks--months, at this point. his scars are bright against his skin, shining in the brief thrashes of lightning. his exhaustion is plain there in the lines of him, the dark under his eyes and the downward tilt of his mouth, pulled into a grimace. but he’s so different now--he’s not naz, but the inquisitor. his eyes seek bull’s, unforgiving and resigned. he doesn’t search for weakness, though bull feels like it must be written across his face, painted there boldly in shame as he struggles. 

naz hardens, his jaw set and shoulders squared. he doesn’t like the expression on naz’s face because he’s seen it before. it’s the same expression naz dons before executions. 

“bring them back.” naz says--orders.

bull wants to exhale a shout of-of--of _something_ but he just nods weakly and raises the horn to his lips.

“ _don’t-_ ”

but it’s too late for that, the little dots in the distance that make up his chargers are dashing away and out of sight. they’ll regroup with them later, and they’ll be _alive_.

gatt has gone quiet, but there is fury in his silence. he paces the cliffs’ edge, drawn up tightly and about to spring. 

“is this what you ally yourself with, hissrad?” gatt spits and there is venom in his words, “a tal vashoth that cannot even defend itself? you give your life away for _this? the inquisition?_ ”

beside him naz snarls wordless, teeth bared. the air around him heated, it’s like standing next to a bonfire, dizzying. bull wants to calm him, desperate for this moment not to escalate even more, yet he’s stuck in a feeling of giddy relief and total terror that roots him to the spot. 

it does not go unnoticed by gatt, his lips turn up in disgust and anger and grief. there’s a second were bull is sure he’s about to strike out, but he shakes his head, stalking off back down the mountain without a glance back. 

somehow it’s worse. 

minutes later, after the air is rent with the deafening explosion and heat and smoke of the dreadnought blackens the sky, naz follows suit.

* * *

bull watches naz join the chargers along the shore side camp, fussing around krem nervously and throwing an arm around his shoulders in a hug. krem for his part seems no worse for wear, and he’s glad. he’s _happy_ \--the boys are alive, and so is naz, and so is he. 

under the small comfort the canvas tents bring, the chargers drink beers brought in waterskins and that taste downright foul, subdued merriment for another battle survived. naz sits right there with them, shoulder to shoulder with krem and avoiding bull’s eye. he doesn’t seem to be partaking in the talk, but he watches with a look mixed with guilt and relief. 

bull departs from the group with a smile and says he’s going to bed, though the night has barely come to claim the shoreline. krem shoots him a worried look but bull shrugs him off.

he crawls into his damp bedroll and closes his eyes and all he can see behind his eyelid is the explosion.

* * *

it is near impossible to get naz alone after that. he skirts around the tavern and spends all hours hiding away in the war room. bull barely sees him outside, catching only brief glances of his tall horn amongst the common folk crowds before vanishing once again. 

bull catches him, finally, and with no time to spare. 

because like well oiled clockwork, the would be assassins stalk behind them as bull marches naz up to the ramparts, holding onto that false calm to keep naz from bolting. they’ve dropped any pretense of being guards, but naz hasn’t seemed to notice yet. he’s too busy trying to keep bull completely in line of sight while not making eye contact. the first bark of qunlat makes him jump and spin around in confusion and fear. 

it’s as satisfying to hit them as it is painful. the cut of the attacker’s teeth biting into his knuckles stirs that slumbering bloodlust to wake, but he’s careful to stamp out the sparks. now was not the time to fly off the handle. 

bull takes a throwing knife to the shoulder. the cut is _laughably_ shallow and the blade falls out of him with a muted ding as he punches the assassin again for good measure.

he has it handled, but naz rushes past him with what looks like a burnt out torch and beats the assassin over the head, dazing them. bull grabs them by the shoulders and hurls them over the ramparts. he hisses as the sting of poison takes hold, shaking vigorously to clear his vision as the world pulses.

“bull--what was--” naz starts, breathing hard. he grips his improvised weapon tightly, still aloft over his head and his eyes are locked on bull. 

“assassins,” bull says, wincing.

“for--for you?” 

bull nods, at a lack for words. bile threatens to rise into his throat and he pushes down the urge to retch firmly. somewhere to his left naz starts to relax by degrees, his head still pivoting around for unseen dangers. he starts toward bull, stopping just shy of arms reach, unsure. 

“ _tal va-fucking-shoth._ ” bull spits with anger. his head spins, the message a clear ringing in his ears, staring down at the assassin fortunate enough to not be hurled from the battlements. 

naz goes deathly still. 

“well, i apologize for turning you into _‘one of them’_.” he says, his tone is _biting_ , he tosses the stick to the side with a harsh flick, and it flies right over the battlements and off the mountainside. every inch of him draws in tightly, like a bowstring about to snap back.

“this isn’t about you, boss.” bull says. 

“no, it is. you still see me as one of those monsters you _had_ to kill.”

“you aren’t like _them._ ”

“oh--we’re doing this now then, finally? _fine._ you can preach all you want how _different_ i am from them but it’s not true. i killed qunari after qunari to leave my home, am i not _exactly_ the monster you speak of? i just sentenced another hundred to death _in front of you!_ am i not a murderer?” naz snaps, boldly stepping closer to glare. “tal va- _fucking_ -shoth, right?”

bull bristles, gritting his teeth and blaming the poison for the burning in his veins. this wasn’t how he meant this to go, but he can’t find the words to appease naz and a little voice in his head snidely chides that it doesn’t _want_ to, not with that infuriatingly smug look of conviction written across naz’s face, like he had been waiting for this moment to come.

“you’re goading me.” bull says angrily.

“in fact--at this point i think _you’re_ one of the ‘good’ ones, you didn’t mean to leave the qun, but the terrible _tal vashoth_ mage pushed you and you fell--but you don’t get to resent me for that.” naz hisses, as if bull hadn’t said a thing, brandishing an accusing finger, “you wouldn’t make a choice, so i did. i saved _your people_ \--our _friends_.”

belatedly, bull notices the heat coming over naz in dizzying spirals, the telltale golden flames of his lack of control encompassing his fists like gloves of fire. 

“and you did it _selfishly_ , you didn’t give a damn about the consequences!” bull snaps, the tension unfurling around them like a wildfire caught in the breeze. 

“of course i knew the _consequences--how dare--_ ” 

he’s shaking violently, breathing too quickly in gasps. bull twitches to steady him in spite of himself, but naz jerks and pushes bull away with an outstretched hand and the force of it winds him. it sends naz to his knees, looking out of focus and so, so afraid.

“i won’t be resented by you for a choice you refused to make.” naz says, and it’s hollow, far away. 

naz stares down at his own hands, glowing and pulsing like a frantic heartbeat, then clutches them close to his chest, as if shielding them from view. a look of realization--or fear?-- crosses his face, and he scrambles back, kicking against the cold stone to force a distance between him and bull. 

“and i won’t have you think of me as something i’m not, i’ve done too much for the sake of surviving to be disrespected like that, iron bull.” 

bull scowls, hurting and wounded and slumped against the cold stonework. he doesn’t move naz as he draws up to his full, haughty height, his eyes dare bull to stop him and they hold no past kindness or affection, it’s all been swallowed by some kind of somber acceptance. 

he’s gone before bull can blink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating update is for future chapters! nothing big spicy, but yknow, better to be safe then sorry etc.


	16. introspection

iron bull takes out his frustrations on training dummies, and he does _not_ go to see naz; at first it is out of spite, some ugly part of him rebelling and angry. then as that settles back into the center of his chest, buried away behind the well worn iron bars of its prison, he feels something unfortunately akin to _guilt_. 

if life under the qun molded and shaped him to all the great potential he had, then surely losing that was the equivalent of shattering the beautifully made pottery to pieces, a literal bull in a china shop. so he flounders, freshly stripped of his identity and on the one and only herald of andraste’s shit list. 

not that he would know, if he weren’t paying acute attention, but he is. so he notices the way he’s completely left out of mission briefs, any of his fieldwork is miles away from any of naz’s, and when he _is_ needed it’s not _naz_ bringing the messages, but random scouts with nervous, anonymous faces. the cold shoulder of indifference hurts, but he doesn’t dare step foot into the gardens. he _knows_ naz will be there, it's the only place he goes, it’s his _sanctuary_. bull thinks if he were to breach that safety he would shatter any chances he has to fix things between them. so he looks through the doorway, at the strip of green and sunlight, and he moves on. instead he spends his free time drinking and brooding away under the scornful glares of sera. 

it’s not even sundown yet when bull finds himself sinking low in his seat, bottle set out on his table. he looks up when a figure slips through the open tavern door, some hopeful, pathetic part of him hoping to see the curve of familiar horns and heavy eyes, but it’s only varric.

varric approaches him in a meandering sort of saunter, taking care to say his hellos to the tavern regulars, making a slow circle around the room until he lands in front of bull with a carefully crafted smile, as if on accident. he sets his drink down on bull’s table and scoots out a chair. 

“you’re starting a bit early today, varric.” bull comments lightly, taking in the dwarf's concerned air hiding under the casual facade. 

“i could say the same to you, tiny.” varric chides back, waving a hand at bull’s own half empty mug.

bull hums noncommittally, grumbling under his breath about _drinking in privacy_. 

varric sighs, nursing his drink between his hands. he seems to be considering his words, fingers drumming the wooden surface of the mug, a fidgety author to the very end. bull downs the rest of his beer, not even wincing at the near acidic taste, andraste knows he’s going to need the dull pounding in his head by the look on varric’s face. 

“you know, i actually met another saarebas,” varric says with little preamble, shuffling still. “before naz.”

bull raises a curious eyebrow, impatiently waving his hand for varric to continue.

“the first thing he did when we unbound him was request to be killed, even though he was free. it wasn’t what any of us expected and least of all what hawke wanted, but there was no way we were going to stop him.” varric continues, frowning guiltily, “so he walked a little ways away, and...burnt up. hawke didn’t want that in the book, i think it affected them more then they were saying. so it stayed between all of us.”

bull’s mouth pulls down into an unhappy line, he keeps the knee jerk responses behind his tongue-- _that’s how it is under the qun, he was doing what he was taught, it’s not perfect and it’s not for everyone_. the words taste bitter when he swallows them back down. 

“i didn’t believe naz was actually a saarebas for a while, not after the last one. he was too put together--clear headed.” he laughs, “which is saying something, i know. i know.”

bull does not laugh and varric goes quiet as a couple rowdy patrons sidle by jeering and celebrating andraste knows what. bull stares down into his mug, as if the answers were being held at the bottom, just out of sight.

“do you have a point to make?” he asks slowly, the prickling of discomfort crawling up and down his arms like skittering insects. 

“yeah, i’m getting to it--anyways, what i’m saying is naz fought like hell to get here alive, and from the sounds of your little lovers’ quarrel, you don’t _get_ that.” 

“i know what he is.” bull says, a little bit defensively.

“then you realize what you look like to him, right?” varric snorts. “that saarebas in kirkwall reunited with his people and they tried to kill him. i don’t think naz ever stopped seeing you as a potential executioner, in a way.”

bull opens his mouth to protest, but closes it quietly. unbidden images of naz rise up to the forefront of his mind; every flinch and nervous quirk of his lips, the tension he held between the two of them as a physical barrier. the fear that he kept close to his chest, rabid and terrified even as he tried to reach out.

“i know.” 

“and you let it get _this_ bad?” varric asks, incredulously, then his eyes darken. “wait-you aren’t doing it on _purpose--_ ”

“ _no_.” bull snaps, his grip around the mug goes iron tight, the wooden handle creaking in protest. he would never do that, but he would be a liar to say the thought hadn’t ever entered his mind, even if he did reject it. 

varric studies him for a moment, then nods hesitantly, relaxing back into his seat. the silence is tense, and bull wonders how much varric actually believes him. he tries to not take it personally, varric didn’t seem to trust anyone, not really. 

“well, maybe you should consider that closer, _tal vashoth_.” varric says without any real heat, but the words still sting. “i’ll leave it at that, i doubt you’d be interested in the rest of my sterling relationship advice.”

“how _are_ things with hawke?” bull asks, holding varric’s gaze as he sets his jaw, and slowly--pointedly drawing his eyes to the lovingly crafted crossbow slung across varric’s back. 

varric’s shoulders tense, his fingers that had been absentmindedly drumming still suddenly.

“well,” varric says, his voice barely a growl. “for one, they don’t hide from the very sight of me. so pretty good, compared to some.” 

they stare each other down for one uncomfortable second, too headstrong to break the tension. 

bull backs off, and closes his eye in frustration. he itches to order more drink, but he lets himself sink into his thoughts instead, as varric slips away wordlessly with a terse pat on the shoulder. 

varric’s words ring in his ears, pulling him out of his self-pitying stupor begrudgingly. he doesn’t like the thought of being a monster--especially to naz, he _hates_ it. but it just wasn’t right, the feeling of being unbalanced and volatile never seemed to go away. he had been comfortable under the qun, it had been safe and it kept him in control, but it also almost cost him his family. 

leaving it behind had cost the inquisition more, and yet--

naz isn’t the first tal vashoth he had met with a relatively good head on their shoulders, but even then he had looked at them with contempt. they rejected everything he swore to uphold, they turned their backs on their people and _ran_. or worse, they went rabid and hateful--riddled with _madness_. 

and now he was one of them. a ruinous part of his mind weeps at the thought, the untethered freedom he has been thrown into feels too close to drowning. 

bile rises in his throat and he swallows thickly. 

“chief?” 

bull glances up to find krem standing with worry etched into his face. he has a hand held up, holding a roll of paper toward him and the other cradling a couple bottles against his chest. krem still sports a rather nasty looking black eye, but besides that the chargers’ injuries from the venatori had been thankfully minor. 

“got some info on the valo kas,” krem starts, unsure. 

“anything?” bull sighs, though there is a flicker of hope, keen and pleading for distraction. he drags himself up, hoping he looks more like the leader of the chargers’ then some poor sod drowning away his sorrows. 

krem shakes his head softly, the shrug of his shoulders apologetic. he shuffles the paper onto the table, using the abandoned mugs to keep it spread in front of bull; it’s a map, a little crudely drawn but more then serviceable, the route the valo kas took away from the conclave is clearly marked, but after a point the singular trail spiderwebs out in different directions, most leading to crossed out dead ends. there is a freshly penned route marked leading further southwest.

“maybe? more likely another wild goose chase--some peasant claims to have seen ‘horned demons’ being led toward orlais.” krem snorts a humorless noise, settling into the chair varric left vacant. “it’s far fetched, but also just a bit weird to lie about?”

orlais was likely another dead end as krem suspects. he can’t begin to imagine why the tal vashoth would venture that way, their arrival would definitely be less then welcome. unless they weren’t traveling there _willingly_ , and that’s a dark thought bull doesn’t want to follow. 

bull grunts what he hopes is an affirmation, and it’s so simple to sink back into being a spy, pouring over the map with krem as if it will yield new results. bull thumbs over a small patch of paper, tracing newly crossed out words with a frown, “what about these?”

krem shrugs.

“we were following up those leads with the help of the qunari, remember?” he says slowly. “i doubt they’ll be interested in helping now, for obvious reasons.” 

bull’s frown twists into something ugly and grim. of course, how could he forget. 

"not that i rather it be the other way, and that's twice now you've saved me at the cost of yourself. i won't forget it, bull." krem rushes on. 

krem's voice is sincere and it hurts. bull wants to tell him the truth, that he froze when faced with the choice. that he was completely useless and it should be naz he's thanking, not bull. he doesn't know if he's grateful or ashamed naz apparently hasn't said a word about it to anyone.

"have you talked to him about it?" krem asks, after bull does nothing but sit there in silent contemplation, taking his eyes off the map to shoot bull a meaningful look that he resolutely ignores. 

"he knows about the investigation if that's what you mean." 

"it's not."

" _krem._ " bull says, with enough warning to bite.

“don’t be stubborn, it’s a bad look on you.” krem gripes, though he hesitates long enough to fill bull’s mug again, long enough for bull to tell him to piss off properly. 

bull just pulls his mug close to his chest, collecting his thoughts under the quiet noise of the tavern. 

“wouldn’t naz be the perfect person to talk to about all this?” krem asks, “it might not have been the same way, but he left the qun too.”

“he’s not exactly in the mood to talk.” bull says, “and i don’t blame him.”

“you’re the people person, how have you not figured him out yet?” krem snorts, lightly laughing into his cup. he tips his chair legs back, precariously balanced on the two back legs as he sways. bull fights back the urge to shove him and send him sprawling. 

“it’s like pulling teeth with him.” bull tries, and krem gives him a pitying look that’s still more amused then anything else. 

“sounds like you need to get your head out of your arse.” krem says sunnily and this time bull does shove him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates might be even more chaotic these next few weeks, my work isn't closing and i will probably be working A LOT.


	17. let's go in the garden

bull eventually drags himself out of the tavern’s addictive lull with only a little bit of prodding from krem. the rough mountain air clears his senses and while the sudden burst of sunlight is blindingly painful it’s probably for the best in the long run.

he slips in the mud and lands on his ass.

a horribly familiar voice starts howling with unfiltered, leering laughter above him as he groans, struggling against the squelch of mud until he’s upright on his elbows enough to glare up at sera, with blackwall a few paces behind her, who at least as the decency to try and cover up his own amusement. she offers him a hand and bull, like the fool he is, accepts it.

and is promptly dropped before he can get his feet under him.

“that’s for whatever shit you pulled with our herald.” sera sneers, though it’s not nearly as harsh as he expected. she grabs him by the shoulder and helps haul him back up, none too gently patting him on the arm. 

“he hasn’t told you then?” bull prods, because his back aches now and he’s feeling just a little bit petty. 

sera _scowls_.

“i got the gist from him, you git.” sera grumbles, “he’s being mighty touchy about it so whatever you done must’ve been shit.”

“is this the part where you threaten me on behalf of naz’s honor?”

“no--well yes, but that’s later--you’re trying to fix things, right? i’ll help.” sera says, a maniacal glint in her eyes that just screams _trouble_. 

“nope.” bull says, his self preservation instincts kicking into gear.

blackwall chuckles, “quite the safe answer.”

sera looks like she’s about to blurt something visceral and rude for a split second before she reels her emotions back in--which shocks bull to a standstill--and as calmly as _sera_ can be, starts her pitch over. “uh, _yeah_ , you need me. i’m his best of the best--i know people and _i_ know _him_.” she peers up at him with something akin to a challenge, “do _you?_ ”

blackwall starts a little, an uncomfortable look on his face; “i think what my fellow associate is trying to say is have you stopped to think about him as an ordinary person, not just a puzzle?” 

bull bristles, the _i think i know him plenty well_ dies on his tongue. he knows naz but how much does he _really_ know about his interests; what he _wants?_ bull spends so much time analyzing every nuance of naz’s behavior he’s failed to take in the big picture, too caught up in trying to unravel the riddle. it makes embarrassment prickle along the back of his neck, some spy he is--was. 

sera stands there waiting, tapping her foot to silent beat while blackwall looks on, amused.

“and...” bull says, “if i _did_ want your help?”

“oh shit! that _worked?_ ” sera cries, delighted, “i mean--well, i’d help you out, the both of you being all mopey ent good for anyone, ‘specially our lord herald.”

bull thinks of the unspoken tensions flaring up around them and has to agree.

“right, you getting him a gift? some sort of peace offering?” sera asks, then rushes right on without waiting from an answer. “could go help ‘m plow his garden or something--” she stops, gasping “--or go plow _him_ in his garden, yeah? that’d be a treat.”

“works well in my experience.” blackwall says, nodding his head sagely. 

bull cracks a smile, “maybe another time.”

the idea isn’t _terrible_ \--that is, the gift giving one isn’t. yet he can’t help but feel it would be lacking, or worse, rejected. he has seen the way naz treats the prospect of gifts from others; disgusted looks poorly masked as indifference, waving away the jewelry, fine clothing and delightful little cakes and cookies. but they were gifts from strangers, faceless nobles all engrossed in the steps of the game, and nothing else. 

so like everything involving naz, it would be complicated to navigate. 

blackwall takes in his expression blandly, “you have no idea what to give him.”

“just get him something stupid, like a hat or some shit.” sera says dismissively, “don’t make it weird.”

“it has to mean _something_ ,” blackwall argues.

“no it doesn’t, it means _something_ because you gave it to em.” sera exclaims, staring at blackwall like he was an idiot. 

“i think i have an idea.” bull says, clearing his throat loudly to speak over them.

* * *

it takes the better part of a week to gather what he needs, and he burns through several favors in the process, though with sera's very loud approval, the aid of a handful of red jennies certainly helps smooth things over. it also gives him time to think about what a tool he's been, which is great.

the next time he passes the gardens to sneak his gift into a quiet corner, naz is there waiting for him, leant up against the stone wall. he looks messy, but not from tending to the plants. his arms are folded tightly over his chest and for once bull can’t decipher his expression as their eyes lock, freezing him in place, mouth agape. 

“sera’s been talking to you then,” naz says, tone carefully void of any inflection, his eyes flick down to the package clutched in bull’s hands. 

bull suddenly feels very inadequate; the package too small, clumsily wrapped and ugly, his intentions even weaker. 

“please would you just--” naz waves his arms suddenly, a jerky, yet frustrated motion. “stop it.”

“what?”

naz flounders slightly, for all his posturing. opening and closing his mouth, his words apparently dying out before they could escape. 

“just come in, you’re making me nervous.” naz says, his voice clipped.

he turns on his heel and all but stalks back into the safety of his gardens, now a flourishing jungle of all sorts of wild plants, flowery bushes nestled amongst the mushrooms and other fungi, permeating the air with an earthy, humid scent. it’s expanded across most of the small courtyard, rashvine crawling down the pillars and curling it’s gentle arms around the few scattered benches. 

while healthy they appear to be completely unattended, growing wildly wherever they so please, giving the courtyard the appearance of an almost dream-like place, the kind you only see in childrens’ books. perhaps a reflection of their caretaker, though bull is reluctant to dive into deep introspections about naz at the moment, clinging to the present version standing before him.

bull still half expects birds to start following naz around as he steps through his greenery, maybe landing on his shoulders to really sell the fairy tale imagery. but in reality, naz draws to a halt to pluck at a weed before turning his attention back to bull with a cruel look of indifference, his face bare to the world and bull. 

“well?” naz asks, tensing up as if readying for battle. 

“this is for you, but i just want to talk.” bull states as plainly as he can. “it’s uh, less a gift, more returning what belongs.”

naz looks a little worried at that, but bull wordlessly holds out the small bundle. he doesn’t really know what to do with himself as naz begins to unravel the packaging. it’s been a _long_ time since he’d been in anything akin to--well, a _relationship?_ but this wasn’t a relationship like bull had ever experienced before. 

he startles out of his thoughts when naz bites back a gasp, head swiveling to stare.

naz brushes his hand almost reverently over the fabric, a thin yet long strip of colored wool. it had been much larger when bull finally got his hands on it, might even have been a coat or something at some point. but the edges were ragged and burnt in places, now they’re trimmed down cleanly; now it has been fitted with a simple clasp, and leather strips looped and tied along the length of it, fashioning it into a belt. 

“i had some... _friends_ turn over what they found of the valo kas back at the conclave, this was it.” bull says, hurriedly. “i thought you might want to keep it, i don’t know if it was important or anything--just that it was theirs.” 

naz nods absentmindedly. his hands clutch the belt tightly between his fingers, and he sniffs, clearing his throat loudly. 

“why are you giving this to me?” he asks, with all the caution of a spooked animal, looking for the ulterior motive, the knife in the back; _what does this mean?_

bull shrugs, trying to keep his expression light. “i’m not lying, i was hoping it would be enough of a peace offering to talk, but i would have given it to you anyways--like i said, it’s yours.”

bull watches him carefully, looking for signs of naz retreating into his head, but he nods again, this time a little more present, or at least enough to wind the belt around his waist, securing it snugly.

“it was--um,” naz sniffs again, aggressively rubbing at his eyes. “it was nook’s, only he’d wear something so gaudy. the big softie hated the cold up at the conclave.”

naz doesn’t offer anything else, the silence is stifling. 

“i’m sorry, naz.” bull tells him. and he is, he _really_ , really is. “i...don’t regret how things panned out, with the dreadnought.” 

and strangely he doesn’t; there’s a great feeling of relief, a weight from his shoulders. just being able to see the boys, settling in for a big dinner with the lot of them, krem perched on his stool in the tavern looking like a total dweeb trying to spot the attractive bartenders, sloshing half his drink to the floor in the process--he can’t imagine trading those moments. 

there’s still the ache for the familiar, the call toward order in the qun. but like everything, it fades. 

“you know, i thought they were for me,” naz says, and bull blinks at him before his brain catches up with the abrupt subject change, as naz dodges anything too emotionally charged. “that’s pretty selfish, right? doesn’t change the fact that i did, until they stabbed you.” 

he lets out a long sigh, rushing out of him quickly and leaving him slumped, defeated. naz seems almost eerily still, the usual restlessness replaced with something somber, quietening his lively, dancing hands. they stay tucked in his pockets, shoulders boxed together like they were fighting off the cold, if it wasn't for the protective hunch. 

“you saw how our people handle traitors, you were never a target.” bull says quietly. “i wouldn’t do that to you, naz.”

“it wasn’t enough.” naz snaps, face hardening. 

bull takes a step back, burnt.

“then do you need me to leave?” bull asks, barely daring to breathe. he would do it, he would go and pack his bags, and collect his chargers and they would go. he would be screaming in his head with every step away from naz, but he would go if he asked. 

“i--” naz starts, stops. 

naz pulls a plant closer to him, snapping off the close hanging stems and stripping it of its leaves methodically, without care of the thorns that drag across his palms and fingertips; he rips into it until the thing starts to wilt under his senseless violence. and until bull has _enough_ \--these were naz’s plants, they had _meaning_ to him, he named them. destroying them was literally hurting him--and nudges naz’s hands away. 

naz doesn’t jump or snap. he just, stops, then starts again. 

“i don’t want you to leave.” he says and his voice is firm. he’s staring down at their hands, just barely touching; the scratches on naz’s palms dripping blood onto bull’s scarred knuckles. hesitantly, he catches his pinky finger around bull’s. 

“i won’t be what you use to punish yourself if i stay.” bull says.

naz looks torn at that, hurt welling in his eyes alongside tears as he jerks his head up to look at bull. there is frustration there too, a kind that grows from a festering energy under the skin, in those deep, dark thoughts in the back of the mind, difficult to quell, even harder to shake off completely. 

bull tugs until naz’s hand fits in his, feeling a little bold. 

“i don’t want it to be that.” naz murmurs after a moment of apparent intense internal struggle. his body shrinks away from bull, pulling his hand away slowly. he laughs self-deprecatingly and it’s not loud, but it slices through the quiet that had gathered around them. “i don’t want to break anymore, but i don’t think i get to choose whether or not _that_ happens.”

“you never break,” bull scoffs, unable to keep his incredulity out of his voice. “you bend.”

naz raises an eyebrow, the smallest inkling of amusement creeping into his eyes. 

“you spend too much time with sera.” bull grumbles. “i mean it though, it’s impressive.”

“i’m glad to please, i suppose.” naz snorts, though his face is still warm.

naz shakes out his hand, seeming to finally notice the small thorn cuts in his palms with a wince. 

“i don’t forgive you, yet.” he says, not unkindly.

“that’s okay.” bull replies.

'yet' is enough; it’s enough to be here, welcomed into the sanctuary of green. he’s willing to work for this comfort, even if today it means just bandaging naz’s hands in torn gauze and waiting under the canopy until it starts to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout if you see any problems with the last half, i wrote it in very disconnected paragraphs and im not entirely sure i ironed everything out properly.


	18. come rain, come sunlight

“we’re going out.” naz calls from the bottom of the hold’s stairs and strikes out across the courtyard, already strapping a pack to his shoulders. he’s not in his usual armor anymore; the beautiful slates of dark metal gone and replaced with thick leathers. less protective but flexible, the only metal comes in the form breastplate and gauntlets, dawn stone glinting in the light.

naz is still staring imploringly, like he’s waiting patiently for an answer. he looks completely ready to set out for the outside world, but he isn’t carrying a weapon.

“now, boss?” bull asks, a little bewildered.

“nah, i’m just going to lug this thing around for the fun of it, new exercise routine.” naz sneers back, though lacking bite. “it’s me, blackwall, solas, and cole. and you--if you’re up for it. there’s business out--”

he pauses mid sentence, a look of sudden concentration seizing his features, a smash mix of excitement and focus for a brief moment. 

“out, uh...somewhere?” he offers, something akin to a smile pulling at his mouth. “i don’t actually remember, i’ll get the details from rutherford before we go.”

“i’ll get my things ready,” bull snorts. which is to say he’ll go grab an extra pair of pants and a sword, maybe convince sera or cole to steal-- _borrow_ a few dumplings from the kitchens.

naz nods approvingly. 

"and one last thing, if anyone asks you have _not seen me._ " naz says, his words so sternly spoken bull almost misses the mischievous spark in his eyes. and with that he darts away, leaping over the stone bannister and landing with a particularly heavy thud ten feet below in the lower courtyard, presumably to fetch blackwall from the stables. bull suppresses a wince. 

bull is left alone for no less then ten minutes to puzzle over naz’s words before a rather frazzled appearing josephine montilyet cuts across the yard, looking out of place surrounded by the new recruits tussling in the dirt, with the sun beating down on their backs. bull idly wonders how hot she must be under all her ruffles. 

"ah! iron bull, hello." she waves, looking relieved at the sight of him. "have you seen the inquisitor today?" 

bull stares at her, "nope." 

"oh, well. that's unfortunate." josephine frowns, and she looks around the sunny field, her eyes searching every nook and cranny for her quarry, as if he would magically spring from the bushes.

"what's he done this time?" bull asks, "also why did you check with _me_ first? you’d have better luck with the _actual_ spymaster." 

josephine sighs. 

"if you must know, he is avoiding his dance lessons in preparation for the ball. he insists he is well versed enough and at this point i fear i might need a net if i'm to see him again." she says, dutifully scribbling away in her notes, "as for you, well...naz has a certain fondness for your company, i thought it would make the most sense to check the obvious places first."

bull tries to squash down the hopeful, happy feeling crawling up his chest, and then stops. there is no invisible barrier holding him back, there are no superiors to report in to, no advantages to be exploited. it’s just him and naz now, he’s allowed this.

* * *

bull likes the trek down the mountain, especially in the company of his prickly companions; naz and solas dodge each other as best they can, but when their arguments flare up between them the sound of it echoes in the empty air. while cole frets quietly, blackwall tries to play the middle man, _mostly_. in reality he’s more the devil’s advocate, prodding and goading the two in equal measures to then fall back in step with bull, watching his work escalate. 

it goes on like that for hours, until the mages talk themselves hoarse and into a stalemate.

“catch.” 

naz throws bull the map, and bull almost drops it down the cliff face. thankfully he’s the best and has the reaction time of...something that’s very fast. 

bull studies the parchment for a moment, then scowls. 

“back to the exalted plains already?” he grumbles, trying to not sound too petulant and frowning down at the ink circle signifying their destination. 

“yeah, the dalish out there could use some help.” naz says, raising an eyebrow. “got a problem?”

“no.” bull says shortly, then caves under naz’s stare. “as long as we stay away from _that_ rift.”

it’s a selfish request, they rift would have to be closed and there was no doubt about it. but it still has naz’s face softening slightly, and he distractedly turns to fidget with his gauntlets, brushing them of invisible stains. naz stumbles a little, a minute trip that sends his shoulder bumping into bull’s, as if on accident, and he stays there, a warm contact against the settling cold wind.

* * *

the fireball that sputters and spits wickedly from naz’s hands burns hot, burns up--far too quickly. naz lets out a frustrated noise that’s more like a growl and strains; fingers clenching, brow starting to drip with sweat. his fingers turn red, then orange, then blue; the heat coming off in shocking waves.

a little ways off--close to the small, crackling fire slowly roasting a handful of rabbits by their modest tents, fresh caught by cole himself--solas watches. he had long since given up on his service as teacher, even with every chaotic, flaming failure that lights up the sky, startling the few birds out of the trees. the differences between naz and him are too large a canyon to cross, though he hovers close enough to interfere, if necessary. 

“don’t push yourself.” bull says, then instantly regrets it, cringing under the focused look of pure annoyance that swivels to face him.

“right, thanks bull!” naz growls with mock cheer, the heat held in his grasp stutters out in a sudden snap. his jaw clamps shut, gritting his teeth against a groan.

 _it’s been hours and you’re just going to hurt yourself at this point,_ bull wants to say, but he’s always been a quick learner, and further angering the man trying to coax fireballs from his fingertips is a foolhardy quest, at the least. 

“ _it’s wrong--all wrong, we used to make shapes from light and dance with them under the night sky, laughter, laughter, laughter, her laughter. where did it go? there is no light._ ” cole murmurs, his eyes steadily trained on naz’s tense figure, he idly balances his twin blades atop his thin knuckles, tipping and swaying the glinting, sharp metal but never falling.

bull shares a nervous glance with blackwall, drinking the over steeped tea brewed by solas. every so often naz bursts with brilliant light that fades out just as quickly as it comes, heating the very air around them with an almost burnt smell, until blackwall complains that it’s becoming a sauna and all but demands naz stop to eat.

* * *

on good days they spend the night by the lake shore--

_"it's advantageous," naz will say, as defensively as he can to hide how excited he is looking out at the embankment, the clear stretch of water going on and on for what must be miles. "we don't have to watch the waterside."_

\--and on those good days naz will shuck off his heavy boots and dip feet in the cold water, one flesh, one metal and wood; he will not smile, and he will not stand there for hours, until his toes start to turn blue and someone-- _bull_ has to thread his fingers with naz's to pull him away. 

on good days they'll walk the embankment, pointing out rocks that might look like other things, the muddy tracks of long gone animals, and then that will spiral them into the past; long faded memories relived between just the two of them. 

“naz--other one not me, _loves_ this kind of place, big open fields and lakes.” naz laughs as he skips a rock across the surface of the water. “she would hate you though, she was much less forgiving then me.” 

“i bet i could win her over with my unending charm.” bull quips back. “did she also…?”

“escape?” naz says, and the edges of him sharpen, tightening up defensively. “no, i think she was born tal vashoth, ended up with humans for a while. she never knew the qun like us yet she hated it something fierce, she would never explain why.”

every outward aspect of naz is rigid and unforgiving, it’s an armor he’s grown into his very soul, nurturing the barbed thorns into deadly spikes and he fights tooth and nail, anything that gets in his way is torn asunder, left _decimated_ \--

“she isn’t angry though, she’s not an angry person.” _like me_ , naz doesn’t say. “she taught me how to garden, to cook, and uh, dance and other things.” 

\--but he sticks around to care for the remains, cultivating the life springing from the dead. he’s almost like a forest fire in that regard. he uses this as a shield, watch as it hides the soft center of him, or as soft as he can go anyway. the part of him that sits out in the gardens, come rain or come sunlight, just tenderly moving the earth with scarred fingertips.

bull watches him turn over stone after stone in his search for the perfect flat shape, and he hopes for a time when the turmoil of naz is settled and sated for good.

* * *

the dalish camp is _small_ , tucked into the side of a rock formation to shelter from the wind and weather, the small roving band of halla bleat plaintively at their approach and the people there are frightened of them; suspicious yet willing enough to engage and share conversation, and gracious enough to allow them to set up a camp nearby. 

on good days bull can stand guard outside the tent as naz slumbers, gently bullying away any requisition officers that approach until the sun is higher in the sky and naz stumbles out groggy, yet well rested enough for bull to count it as a victory.

* * *

the next few days see naz going through the same motions; another flicker of not-fire, this one golden, yellow, and blue--but just as uncontrollable, just as quick to die on naz’s fingertips, though thankfully not burning his fingers. the sound that falls from naz’s lips is frustrated and angry, his breath is hot, steaming up the air more then it should naturally. 

“come _on_.” naz utters, repeating the process for the thousandth time again. 

blackwall hovers awkwardly close, even though naz has snapped at him several times to get out of the way, lest he get caught by a stray fireball. but worry keeps him near; his friendship with naz is a tightly woven thing, almost familiar in nature. 

bull wonders if naz has noticed it at all; blackwall is good at keeping things quietly to himself, but the way he cares for naz is like a brother--or even a father, in another life. his devotion is subtle but there all the same. 

“have you considered turning away from the offense and toward the side of support?” solas asks, genuine curiosity lacing his words. 

naz blanches, and his next feeble attempts at magic stutter and explode, his lips curl. 

“what-- _heal?_ ” his laugh is loud, mocking. “like you? sorry but i prefer to kill the things hurting me, not wait for them to deal the damage out just to make it better.”

“you have a skewed opinion on what it means to bring life instead of taking it. it is sad, really.” solas replies, unnervingly cool. “i can show you how to ask spirits for aid, there are many that seek to heal and help, like cole.” 

cole squirms slightly, shrinking into himself in a way that makes it difficult to remember he’s there. 

“i-” naz starts, swallowing uncomfortably. “i don’t think...i could be capable of that.”

_i don’t think i can do anything but destroy._

“i think you’re capable of anything.” bull pipes up, then chokes on an awkward cough as naz _stares_ at him with an incomprehensible expression. “well, maybe not becoming a marathon runner with the foot and all--but almost anything.” 

“ _oh great maker’s balls._ ” blackwall mutters, dutifully taking it upon himself to look mortified for naz.

* * *

naz doesn’t bring a weapon with them as they set out to track the missing halla for the dalish. it’s a lucky thing that the only thing that tries to attack them are wolves, rabid and snarling as they circle the group, trying to get close enough to rend and tear. 

they aren’t strong and their bodies are thin, living off the constant carrion from past battles, freemen soldier bodies left to putrefy under the blistering sun, turning the meat rotten. it certainly has made them bold though, they dance ever closer, carelessly, drunk on the bloodlust that permeates the air of the grasslands. 

“they’re starving.” cole calls softly, darting out of range of their curious jaws.

bull simply kicks them away, a firm boot to the stomach, and blackwall sends them sprawling with a shield bash, but it doesn’t deter them for long, lean black bodies slinking back up like disconnected shadows. 

bull intercepts the jaws of one beast before it can wrap it’s sharp teeth around cole’s leg, he shoves his arm into the back of it’s throat, pushing his elbow into it’s neck until it chokes and gags. he grimaces against the pain, the hot slide of blood down his forearm. 

he’s about to turn this little dance into a proper fight and draw his weapon when naz hisses out a breath by his side. he glances over to see naz’s hands stretched out before him, grasping for something invisible in the air. 

with a sudden blast of noise, a smoking, raging shape streaks through the air--it’s like blackpowder detonating, suddenly bull is surrounded by dreadnoughts and fog warriors, but no, he’s here, and the sky is clear and open, and there is clean, green grass under his feet. 

naz goes flying backwards as the not-fire strikes the wolf dead, sending it’s poor mangled body hurtling into a rock with a sickening crack. the other beasts cower at that, their mortality suddenly brought back into hyper focus at the sight of their fallen pack mate. they scatter. 

bull swears, grabbing naz’s wrist before he crashes bodily into the rocks behind them. he gives a grunt of pain, shrugging out of bull’s grip to shake his fist through the air, and only then does bull notice his hand had been _on fire_ , magic lingering and licking up his arms hungrily.

solas darts forth, his hand draws hovering blue symbols into the air and he presses them toward naz quickly. on contact they extinguish the flames, fading into his skin as he slumps, the fight draining out of him. 

“what the hell was that?” bull barks, unable to keep the worry from his voice. 

naz is also swearing now and his nose bleeds, dripping down his chin. he ignores bull, craning his neck to look over his shoulder.

“where’d the fucking golden bitch go?” he croaks, his voice sounds as if he’s been guzzling glass, he squeezes his wrist, the gloves charred and revealing brightly burnt skin. “fucking fuck, that smarts.” 

“i suggest you don’t try that again until you learn more _control_ , inquisitor.” solas scolds, he stalks over to the dead wolf with a tight expression, he leans down to lay a hand on it’s head, muttering something under his breath. 

naz makes a face in his direction, wiping the blood from his nose. 

“it worked didn’t it?” he shoots back.

“you were _literally_ on fire!” blackwall exclaims, returning to the group after a furtive search for the missing halla. he snatches naz’s hand in his grip to inspect the damage, not letting up as naz jerks away and calls him all sorts of colorful expletives.

“i had it handled, mind yourself blackwall.” naz snaps, finally tearing himself from the man’s touch with a disgruntled growl. 

“so you can burn yourself alive? is that what you want?” blackwall clenches his fists, his eyes filled with an indescribable sorrow that only has naz _bristling_.

varric’s voice rises into his mind, sending shivers crawling down his back; _and...he burnt up_. he could see it, it’s too easy to imagine the flames devouring leather and skin, burning away the scars, and flesh, and that rare smile he coveted; leaving nothing but ash, and blackened bones. carrion for the wolves. 

“i don’t have to explain myself to you,” naz says, and bull can see him gearing up for another fight, the two of them charging the field with tension, but naz hesitates, with a sidelong look from bull he stops to take a deep breath and the dangerous sparks die with it. “i’m _fine_ , blackwall. bull got the worst of it from the wolves.”

bull waves his bloodied arm cheerfully. 

blackwall studies naz nervously, then relaxes by the inch. “don’t do that again, i’ve seen enough of you on the ground.”

naz looks stricken by that.

“i have her,” cole shouts, appearing from thin air and startling all four of them. the golden halla stands next to him, nibbling cole’s sleeve gently. “she won’t run again, we’re friends.”

he beams, and he’s getting better at it.

after returning the halla to the dalish, naz stares at bull’s bleeding arm as solas patches him up.

* * *

bull finds naz by the stream, his back to the twinkling lights of the dalish camp preparing for their supper. he nurses a mug in one hand while the other floats under the current, the stumps of his missing fingers barely skimming the surface.

even now his hand pulses faintly around the cup, just the smallest bursts of color. still trying to replicate his _‘success’_. 

“won’t that rust your foot?” bull asks in way of greeting, then adds, “mind if i join you?” just to be sure, pleased when naz hums an affirmative. 

“i’ve kicked giant spiders and fade demons, a little river rust isn’t gonna hurt it, bull.” naz snorts, grinning.

he settles onto the grass, wincing at the dampness and the occasional sting of bugs biting. naz fills his mug back to the brim with a bottle that sits between his legs, carefully kept from tipping totally into the water, and passes it to bull. he accepts it hesitantly, but whatever’s in the bottle is fine enough, if a bit on the tart side. 

“where did you even get this?” bull asks, swishing the liquid around dubiously. 

naz shoots him a mildly guilty look. 

“remember that dalish graveyard?”

“naz.”

“it was just sitting there! they’re all dead, least it’s getting some use now.” 

bull shakes his head in mock disapproval. 

“you don’t have to push yourself so hard, you know. they were just wolves.” bull scolds as softly as he dares, well aware of the grim thoughts that lurk around naz, waiting to consume him. he nods down to the hand naz has in the water. “have you burnt yourself again?” 

naz yanks it back out, curling into a fist in his lap. “no.”

“mmhm.”

“genuinely though, i haven’t!” he protests, “it feels like i have but there’s nothing there, not even a mark.”

bull sighs, passing the drink back, “magic is so fucking weird.”

naz smothers a laugh in the rim of his cup, his eyes lighting up like stars in the failing evening sun.

"i think...i think i was trying to play, when mine first manifested." naz considers wistfully. "there was another girl with me, we weren't being particularly rambunctious but i remember looking at her--and she was so pretty and it made me feel so... _much._ " 

when he looks at bull his eyes are shining, the ghost of the past draping itself lovingly over his tired shoulders in a comforting embrace. 

"i might have hurt her, i don't remember. i hope i didn't." naz continues, "after that it's a blur. i was scared, i asked too many questions and that scared them too. and then fear turned to anger, and anger turned to rage and i slipped."

"was that when you left?" bull asks. 

"yeah, i wasn't that young at that point, couldn't talk with the stitches but i could hurt others just fine." naz snorts humorlessly. "guess i'm good at that. turned a whole bunch of arvaarad into sludge and ran." 

“so i need this, bull.” naz finishes resolutely, a hardened look returning to his face, “i can’t wield a blade nor a bow, this is my last option to be of any _use_. if i can’t defend my people then what good am i out here?”

bull tilts his head, taking naz’s clenched fist from his lap and gently coaxing it to relax, rubbing his own thumb feather light over the pulse of naz’s wrist, “who says you aren’t useful?”

“oh shut it, this isn’t the time to do--that.” naz grumbles with a reddening face, waving his free hand at bull aggressively.

“alright,” bull acquiesces, he doesn’t relinquish his hold though, “then how come the magic isn’t working?” 

“i don’t know! i-i used to be able to do _so much_ \--i was good at this.” naz says, “it was _beautiful_ and i created it, and then-then they-” he stutters, chokes, his breathing quickening. 

“hey, easy.” bull murmurs, pulling him in close, but slow enough for naz to shy away should he choose. he doesn’t, allowing himself to be tucked against bull’s side, his face burrowed under bull’s chin. “don't force yourself. i have you.” 

“ _i should have killed them all._ ” naz mutters into bull’s throat nonsensically. 

bull just holds him closer, until naz’s breathing peters out and steadies. he’s almost sure naz has fallen asleep when the man stirs, just enough to tilt his head back and make hesitant, watery eye contact. 

“hey.” naz says simply. 

“hey yourself.”

“i like you, you know.” naz tells him, like it’s a secret to be kept between the two of them. he doesn’t blush or even stutter, it’s just an even statement of fact. 

“are you drunk?” bull asks. 

naz scowls, “not yet.”

“good.” 

he presses a kiss to the center of naz’s forehead, the smooth, yet uneven skin of his scar warm under his lips. he feels more then hears the contented hum under him, naz’s fingers finding a hold around his neck, pulling him closer so their pressed together at every possible angle. he feels warm all over, but not unpleasantly, it’s like a balm; not hot enough to burn. 

“sap.” naz chides.

“you’re one to talk.” bull chuckles, pulling back a little just to make naz grumble a protest and haul him back in. 

he shivers under bull’s embrace, though from the little noises he makes, it’s not from the cold or misplaced fear. instead he’s almost greedily drinking in the touch, like it’s something sacred. bull stops to wonder how much positive touch naz must receive nowadays, the way he would lean into sera when they sat side by side in the tavern, or preening from a friendly pat on the back from blackwall, desperate for the contact--and draws that line of thought to a halt before he makes himself tense and sad. 

he does have to push naz away eventually, his injured arm is _throbbing_ from the angle and being disturbed. bull murmurs an apology but naz ignores him, his gaze fixating on the blood spackled bandage. 

“what are you thinking about down there?” bull asks, a mixture of amusement and nervousness seeing the gears so clearly turning in naz’s head. 

“unfortunately,” naz inhales, “that solas might have the right idea.”

he splays his fingers gently over the bandage on bull’s arm, barely there pressure but hotter then it should be, much, _much hotter_. bull startles slightly, resisting the urge to flinch when naz makes a quiet shushing noise, his eyebrows screwed up with concentration. 

naz mutters something under his breath, maybe a prayer, or maybe nothing distinguishable at all. all that matters is he falls forward and kisses bull softly, dragging his attention away from naz’s fingers tracing nonsensical patterns over his gauze and skin. 

naz parts his mouth to run his tongue teasingly along bull’s lip, and he exhales shakily when he pulls back. 

“how did i do?” naz asks, almost coy if not for the nervous tilt to his smile, his eyes are bright with something fade touched but not fade green, instead almost golden. it’s a sight that in the past might have brought panic to bull’s mind but all he can think is _wow he’s beautiful_. 

bull blinks, looking down at his arm where the gauze has come away and unfurled, and where there should be the sight of healing bite wounds there are only the merest scabs and purpling bruises. he flexes hesitantly, the muscles are sore but the pain is gone. 

“you--”

“did i do it? did i fix it?” naz asks in a rush, excitement bleeding into his voice that he doesn’t bother to stifle. 

“yeah--wow, look.”

he kicks his legs out excitedly when bull brandishes his arm out for him to see, almost toppling into the stream. in the dying light bull can just see the strands of warm gold that surrounds them both, detaching slowly from bull himself to draw back to its source. 

bull tries to reach up and touch it, but it disappears under his fingers.

“told you you could do anything.” bull says delightedly, a thought comes to him suddenly, and the force of it winds him. 

naz struggles upright, frowning at him. “what?”

bull gasps for air, still giggling. 

“you did that while tipsy on some bottle of ancient wine you found in some dead guy’s grave!” bull laughs, wiping the tears from his eyes. 

“oh you--shut it.” naz snorts.

“never, you’re amazing, boss.” bull says, just to see naz go red from more then just drink. “do you have to kiss someone for it to work?” 

“why? jealous?” naz returns with a bewildered expression, barely containing his smile. 

“no, just wondering if that was something that could happen again, for different, non healing reasons.” bull says breezily, and naz laughs, shuffling back into bull’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG BOY CHAPTER \o/


	19. and when the whiskey, it starts a-flowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then we shall drink, we shall drink, drink to our boy Jack  
> When the whiskey, it starts a-flowing  
> Then let us pour it fast and free

“did you think she wouldn’t remember?” bull muses.

they’re all _a little_ questionably tipsy--totally drunk in krem’s case--when naz finally joined them. the mood is jovial, the musicians play quietly in their corner as people mill about, some even stumbling along to the beat. after weeks on the road and with the discontented rumble of thunder outside, it’s a good day to hole up in the herald’s rest and get absolutely smashed.

naz, in total contrast to everyone around him, looked miserable--and he wasted no time in snatching several bottles from the bar, before settling in between krem and bull. before long the sun sets, and the tavern fills with even more people while naz drinks himself into oblivion. 

because unfortunately for naz, upon returning to skyhold after nearly two weeks of ghosting his advisors, he was _immediately_ confronted by josephine at the front gates. 

“the real question is did you seriously arrange all that to avoid _dance lessons?_ ” blackwall manages to slur out, unable to keep his chuckling quiet.

“ _iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii’ve_ been out and about m’self for eight yea--no, that’s wrong-- _TEN_ years!” naz drawls, completely ignoring the question. he’s barely in his own chair anymore, his legs are draped over bull’s lap and his head shoved against krem’s shoulder, who wraps an arm around him affectionately. “and she says _i can’t dance?_ ”

“she didn’t say that; she said you can’t do all those pompous _orlesian_ dances.” bull corrects, grinning openly at naz’s scandalized expression, his face becoming more and more of a red mess.

“whole a load of piss, is that.” naz grumbles, almost unintelligibly, “can’t dance, show her can’t dance.”

blackwall manages one fearful glance to bull before naz stands with a purposeful gleam in his eyes. 

naz links arms with krem and blackwall--though he has to drag the latter to get him to move, and he shouts something at the musicians as he hauls his companions to the open floor, albeit staggering all the while, making space between the other drunken dancers.

he’s drawing attention, every single head in the tavern pulls up to look at him, spellbound.

he’s _singing_ , bull realizes belatedly, as he starts to move in earnest; every spin and twist and stomp of his boots punctuated by the rambling words of a song that even bull has never heard before. he doesn’t have the best voice in the world for it; a raspy growl from the drinking, but he shouts the lyrics at the top of lungs with a confidence that makes up for it. 

krem is laughing too much to mimic naz’s steps, but he tries regardless while blackwall turns bright red. they look happy enough, though.

to naz’s credit, the man _can_ dance. 

it’s just not the sort of dancing you do in front of nobles with more sticks shoved up their asses then cullen. 

and it’s _magical_. 

around naz the tavern lights up; sera comes crashing down the stairs to join the growing fray of merriment and dancing, the musicians double their efforts until the music is deafening, but even then it’s almost overshadowed by the scream of a dozen people singing in unison, even if they don’t really know the words. the stomp of their feet rattle drinks off tables, and even cabot doesn’t throw a fit. bull’s almost sure he cracks a smile. 

but bull can’t focus on the room, not with naz there in the center. he can’t help it, he stares.

he’s never seen naz like this. this is a happy stranger, this is a man dancing with his friends and fellow soldiers with sweat beading his brow and a flush in his face. 

but is it really that strange? he’s always had a way with people, it’s how he’s gotten them all this far. sure he might not be the most traditionally charismatic person in the world, but he _understood_ , he listened and that raw boldness drew people in like moths to a flame. it’s not a stranger bull sees, but the inquisitor. the shadows of pain and the weight of the world set against his shoulders is still there just out of sight, held at bay for now. 

every so often he crosses paths with sera or krem, and that radiating grin returns tenfold as they all laugh like children, before they leap back into the fray. 

when naz swings around on his heels--a little awkwardly as his prosthetic stutters under him--to pin bull with a look, he thinks he dies a little bit. 

“c’mon!” naz shouts, but in the din around them it’s basically a whisper and bull nearly misses it. 

naz holds out his hands, battered and scarred, fingers wiggling impatiently. and well, bull’s never been one to let an opportunity pass him up. 

“do you know this one?” naz asks, his tone light and teasing. 

bull scoffs, “i live in a bar, naz--i know all the dances.”

that sparks something sharp in naz’s eyes. when they link hands, naz tugs him into a fast tempo, daring him to stumble. it’s certainly too much for krem to follow in his drunken state, and the others fall back a little to give them space, some cheering along. 

bull does try to keep up, but he’s distracted by naz’s fingers, dancing to their own beat across his shoulders, down his arms, casually grasping. so he slows them down; steadying their quick spiral until naz settles.

“too fast for you, old man?” naz murmurs in his ear, leaning in close to bull’s space.

“hardly.” bull lies smoothly, “i didn’t know dancing was one of your many talents,”

“it was a requirement to join the valo kas.” naz says seriously, “and it might so happen t’be a _fannntastic_ method to feeling alive and connected, in my experience.”

ah.

naz tugs on him gently, pulling him back into the sway.

bull finds forgiveness in his arms, written in the drink-loosened smile slapped happily across naz’s face. there is no rhyme or rhythm to their movements, but there is a fluidity to it; a bone deep knowledge that commands their feet to turn just so, to dip and sway this way. the press of people around them drags them along. 

he finds it in the knowing surety in naz’s face, his eyes still alight with mischief and something else, softer now more then ever. naz’s hand clasps his tightly, as they push away from each other, almost separating, before pulling back together, flush, skin to skin. 

the music begins to die back a little, as people slowly return to conversation and drink. bull can feel naz sigh, his singing dying to a hum and then to silence. 

at the end of the day, it was just a dance in the middle of a frankly mildly smelly tavern. and when naz sobers up he will carefully reel in that raw emotion, and hold it close to his chest. he won’t be embarrassed, but he’ll keep that openness under lock and key. he won’t smile like he means it. he won’t _dance_. 

bull hides his sudden melancholy by pulling naz closer, though it makes them both stumble over each other’s feet, he’s too busy trying to find comfort in naz’s heartbeat, beating away like a drum. naz stills under his embrace, calming, until he’s just gently swaying the both of them.

“it’s alright.” naz says, and doesn’t elaborate. 

bull nods mutely, letting a sigh frizzle through him and out. 

“alright, i think that’s enough for tonight.” says the inquisitor, then naz gently meets his gaze. “come to bed with me?”

another time bull might have taken that as a proposition, but naz’s voice, while slurred still from drink, holds no inclination toward anything but sleep. 

bull’s traitorous brain freezes up with naz curls in close under his arm, reminding him of the last time they were like this. but naz doesn’t pull away, his heartbeat doesn’t jump and stutter in fear where he’s pressed close. he just settles in, his breath ghosting out of him softly, deceptively pilant.

“go to sleep,” naz mumbles, low enough that the command is softened. he pulls the sheets up and over them. “’m not going anywhere.”

bull sleeps, and he does not dream.


	20. seal my heart and break my pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> little heads up as far as content warnings, this chapter is mildly NSFW and there is a brief mention of self harm scars.

little things that once slipped through the cracks start to make themselves clear over time, the blurry painting coming into sharp focus with every minute spent in naz’s welcoming company. bull is half tempted to start a list of all the things he knows are true about naz. 

_he hates anything sweet flavored, but he still makes cookies with sera all the time._ true.

 _he drills fear until it becomes a diamond of hardened rage, only flinching when it cracks, shatters into a million tiny pieces of terror, all aimed for his heart._ check. 

_he can't lie unless he's behind a mask. he reacts to everything, and every single grievance is marked and tallied in his grudge laden soul._ yep.

but he discards the idea, realizing it was less of a list, and more the lovesick makeshift poetry of some swooning chantry girl, and definitely _not_ bull.

another thing he knows as true is that naz is _direct;_ he no longer has problems showing his intentions and he never once stops asking for permission from bull with his advances, sometimes so stoically bull has to laugh, much to naz’s annoyed embarrassment. 

but he isn’t one for big declarations of affection--and bull doesn’t mind really, he knows naz’s feelings, they’re written all over his face--but that doesn’t stop naz from leaving him gifts. 

most are ridiculous--dawn stone engraved eyepatches, bedazzled in glittering, flashy jewels that he gripes will blind him in his other eye. small carved statues; usually dicks or something along that line of vulgarity. he lines them all up on the windowsill in their room-- _when had it become theirs?_ \--in order of size and it gets a good cackle out naz before he’s pulled to bed. 

other times the gifts are more thoughtful, and usually left in places bull will find them, without any real sign they’re from naz--but they are. horn balms, fancy cakes, flowers, belts and bracers and necklaces of protection, of power. once bull found a brand new sword leaning against his familiar haunt in the back of the tavern. it gleamed in the lantern light, sparkling and beautiful. 

this frankly intense level of directness that naz wields is also helpful and it guides them both through things much quicker then bull is used to, especially in the case of bull’s attempts at seduction--though he won’t lie, it was good to see naz laugh, even if it was at his own expense.

_“if you want to have sex you just have to ask. that stuff’s not going to work on me, i’m afraid.” naz says amusedly, as bull lounges suggestively on his bed pillows. “though it’s very cute.”_

sex is _different_ for naz and he explains it simply; his experience with it is as a thing of comfort. a way to be intimate and feel safe and cared for, and while he assures bull he finds him handsome, his attraction draws the line at romantic. 

so while it might’ve initially blown the wind from bull’s hypothetical sails, it proved to be something they could navigate together. 

_“tell me what you want, darling.” bull murmurs, with naz trapped between him and the wall, his mouth finding a home in the curve of his neck._

_his hands skate lightly down the skin revealed by naz’s unbuttoned shirt, pausing to caress a scar here or there and draw goosebumps to the surface. pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, teasing with his teeth until he gets a reaction--a gasp, and sinks into a bite. his hand comes to a rest just below naz’s navel, waiting._

_naz whines, squirming up into bull’s touch, beautifully responsive._

_“feels nice, feels good, i’m into it, s’all there is to it.” naz grits out, “i know the word just--fuck, please.”_

_bull smiles, biting back a rather cheeky comment in favor of slipping inside naz’s pants, curling his fingers just to hear his breath hitch and sigh out of him with satisfaction._

_naz’s own hands still hover above his head, resting against the wall behind him where bull had placed them earlier. interesting._

_he taps naz’s wrists lightly, “good.”_

_and the simple praise has naz humming a low note of pleasure, leaning forward gently to chase after bull’s mouth._

_it also allows his hand free range of naz's body, conveniently enough, and he takes advantage of the fact immediately. thumbing over the red, worried mark on his throat. tilting his head back, tracing the smooth line of naz's jaw to jump to his lips, a rumble working its way through his chest when they part to let him in, tongue darting forth to tease._

so there is a balance they try to walk; an ebb and flow of what they’re both willing to give or take. 

most nights naz rejects touch, or he might want to be held down and nothing further then that. the wrong move sends him spiraling into a dark place; he says the word when bull brings up ropes, and he goes dark and distant, trapped in the foggy void of the past that bull has to soothe and entice him out of. when he does finally come out of it he's...lost, confused. 

it becomes a part of life, now he’s privy to witness the moments when naz goes stiff, and his eyes stare out across the endless nothing like he isn't even there. bull is still learning how to care for him in those states of confusion, it’s just another set of rules to learn and he adapts.

* * *

when he’s stretched out completely naked quickly becomes bull’s favorite sight. languid and relaxed, his skin is warm, _alive_ under his fingers, content to just be. it gives him plenty of time to map out every mark, every scar; from the ragged bite marks across his thigh-- _either from a wyvern, a varghest or a dog, naz had told him_ \--to the twin, delicate lines across his throat, fatally beautiful. 

“i want to know you.” naz says suddenly, breaking bull out of his daze as he follows a scar down naz’s stomach, receiving a smack for his troubles when his fingers tickle the senstitive skin. 

“implying you don’t?” bull asks, a little amused given their state of undress. 

“oh i don’t doubt that i know most of the important--boring bits, darling,” naz dismisses, “but i want to know everything, i want to _consume_ you.”

naz fixes him in place with a heated look that leaves bull’s mouth dry, it wasn't often that bull was on the receiving end of a predatory gaze that made him feel like prey.

“don’t be weird.” bull sighs affectionately, parsing his hand through naz’s unruly hair, grazing his thumb over the buzzed stubble. he’ll be in need of a shave soon enough. 

“fine,” naz acquiesces, “what’s your favorite color?”

“um,” bull says, his brain stuttering over a simple question, though he seems to find himself flustered under naz’s scrutiny more and more often then not. _pink._ “red.”

naz nods sagely, like he’s drinking in the information. he goes quiet as bull traces the raised lines up his inner arm, the healed cuts too uniform to be accidentally earned. bull kisses them lightly and naz relaxes back into him. 

“how fitting,” naz says, after a moment’s pause. “mine’s blue, so we can be purple together.”

his eyes crinkle at the corners as he offers a small smile.

naz doesn’t seem to mind indulging his wandering hands, chuckling quietly and running his own hands down bull’s neck and shoulders in turn. he can feel the pinpricks of warmth dancing there along naz’s fingertips, taking every scratch and cut and smoothing them away. 

naz looks good as a healer--he _feels_ better, less troubled. bringing life instead of taking. the bloodlust of a reaver had suited him in many ways, and bull can still see him twitching for that release, that endless fight and bloody feeling he hungers for when he thinks others aren’t looking. but this keeps him safe, so it has to be enough.

* * *

sadly, those warm days curled under the sanctuary of their bedsheets are rare. 

on the worst days he doesn't see naz until it's dark, no matter how hard bull tries to find him. then naz will sneak down from wherever he had been holed up in the hold, and climb into their bed, pressed up against bull's chest tightly. 

sometimes he falls right to sleep and it’s a blessing. sometimes he clutches his marked arm, clawing his fingernails into his skin where he holds it at the elbow, with a strip of leather between his teeth to stifle his pained howls. sometimes bull has to pin him down to keep him from ripping his arm to shreds in his delirium, and naz will cry and sob and curse until the fight leaves him to wallow in the pain, trembling. 

and the mark will coil and refract it's strange, unwelcome green light onto the ceiling of their otherwise lightless room, putrid and despised.

* * *

“hey,” naz says suddenly, prodding bull in the side with his elbow. “varric’s come up for air finally.”

bull looks up from his incredibly important work snatching food off one of the many tables as he walks the great hall with naz, and true enough, varric is back to lurking in his favored corner after holding up in his room for days, presumably to work on his books. 

“gonna talk to him?” naz asks with all the tact of a sledgehammer, giving him the most blatant side eye bull’s ever been on the receiving end of.

bull nods. he and varric hadn’t spoken much since their talk in the tavern, in which bull had been a bit of an ass. 

naz pats him on the back, says; “well, off you trot!” and as he walks off, he takes the platter bull had been sampling from. bastard.

bull extracts himself from the tables, sidling along until he comes to a stop by varric’s fireplace, who is bickering animatedly with another dwarf. varric shoots him a questioning look, but doesn’t say a word to him as he finishes his conversation. 

“varric, got a minute?” bull greets, after the other dwarf departs, gauging varric carefully.

the dwarf glances at him, a perfectly masked smile placed neatly onto his face, “hey, sure thing, tiny.”

“i want to apologize for my attitude before, and what i said.” bull says, “it wasn’t fair, you were trying to help. i’m sorry.”

varric softens slightly, his tightly wound posture lessens and he sighs. 

“yeah, it’s fine, bull.” varric replies, “we’re good.”

bull grins tentatively, and holds out his hand. they clasp arms and the tension bleeds out. 

“anyways, things certainly worked out,” varric says with a smile that’s much more genuine then before, “i see our dear herald isn’t watching his shadows as much anymore, and you look ridiculously dopey, so everything must be good.”

“yeah, you were right.” bull snorts. 

an inquisition messenger trots up to bull, looking confused with a bundle of some sorts under his arms. “have a package for the inquisitor, have any of you seen him?” he asks. 

bull waves a hand further into the hall, “check down by the big chair.”

“ _‘throne’_ is the word you’re looking for.” varric grins. 

“don’t let naz hear you say that.” bull warns, though he fights back a giggle. “he’ll have the thing thrown off the mountain.”

the messenger mumbles something but moves along.

“so how are things with his inquisitorialness?” varric asks. bull feels a little like his own words are being thrown back at him, but varric’s tone is light, even if his eyes gleam hungrily for information. nosy git. 

“wouldn’t you like to know.”

“that _is_ why i asked, tiny.”

“why don’t you go ask the boss himself?” bull suggests snidely, “i’m sure naz would be more then happy to paint some vivid details for you.”

varric shudders, “are you kidding me? i know you might like to stick your hand in that hornets nest, but i prefer mine unscathed, these are my moneymakers!”

and he waves his hands in front of bull for show. 

“well there’s your answer. and since when were _you_ hurting on money--” 

bull doesn’t get to finish his sentence before a horrific sound pierces the air; so strangled and pained it sounds animalistic. several people in the hall cry out in alarm, jumping back and bull reaches for a knife from his belt on instinct, swinging toward the source. 

he sees naz, collapsed on his knees with the inquisition agent standing over him. the shriek climbs in volume, grotesque in it’s agony as it rips from his throat. 

bull covers the distance between them and before he can even _think_ he's throwing the messenger out of the way with a fist to the stomach--finally looking at his face; young, scared, inquisition armor, _i will remember you_ , a bloodthirsty voice in his head snarls--and lifting naz to his chest.

his hands feel heavy as he checks for wounds--for blood, as naz’s voice peters into a sickening wheeze under him. but there’s nothing there, no gaping holes in his sides, no blood turning his shirt red. 

but naz does clutch in a white knuckled grip, two angular shapes; black and dark brown in color, one twisting into a tight, ridged spiral and the other gently curling to a wicked point. their ends are harshly shorn off, as if done carelessly with a hacksaw. they’re _horns_ , bull realizes dimly but with a sickening dread beginning to grab his heart. 

the air heats up to an impossible degree around them, then as suddenly as it comes, it drops. in his arms naz goes deathly cold, and the freeze crawls from him to bull, hungrily leeching away his warmth, devouring him, piercing his skin with a million sharp icicles. 

“naz!” bull snarls, desperate. terror turns his hands against him, shaking as naz desperately tries to draw breath that won't come, while bull’s comes out choking and cold.

the paper packaging lays on the floor next to him, crumbled. a simple note curled among the wreckage reads, in looping, delicate letters; _our fondest regards_. 

the world starts to slide sideways, the ground under him a solid sheet of ice. yet his eyes are drawn to the figure striding across the perilous surface; solas, his steps hurried but sure. when he kneels before them, it doesn’t look like the magic that bites and shreds at bull’s willpower is affecting him at all. 

he presses his palm into naz’s chest, so forcefully his nails bite into naz’s skin as they glow blue, his face is a mask of concentration as his own magic encircles and tightens, then disappears with a shudder and naz sucks in a gasping lung full of air. 

cassandra comes racing down the hall to them, flanked by several soldiers. she comes to an abrupt stop before reaching the ice, but marches across and with a great swoop, rams the pummel of her sword into naz’s head and he goes limp in bull’s arms. 

“ _not here._ ” is all cassandra spits, stock still and furious.

* * *

they drag naz up the stairs to his room, and set him on top of the dusty bed, cold and unfamiliar from it’s disuse. he’s still out cold, his temple bruising and starting to bleed gently, but he is thankfully quiet, almost peaceful if not for the frown creasing between his eyebrows. 

cassandra dips away, disappearing down the stairs again.

bull settles on the end of the bed, leaning his full weight onto one of the posters. his skin _burns_ with frostbite, and he can’t shake the cold that continues to gnaw at him, sending him into shuddering shivers with every breath. 

solas busies himself checking over naz, murmuring faintly as he heals what he can before he turns to bull and eases the ice from his skin, bloody shards of ice that melt away as soon as they slide away. though it doesn’t take the chill with it.

“how long have you known?” bull asks him.

solas stops, sighs, “i believe we should wait for the seeker,”

so they wait.

when cassandra returns, she’s flanked by two humans--one bull recognizes again as doctor grey, who gives a small, excited wave--though the other could be anyone for all he cares. 

“have you broken my patient again?” grey asks brightly, then falters a little under the glare of the three of them. 

the healers take over for solas, armed with gauze and balms. they roll up naz’s sleeves and expose the unseen damage; a mirror of what had been done to bull, skin frostbitten and bruised black and blue. 

“how long have you known.” bull says again, and he can barely bring himself to phrase it like a question. 

“we knew from the beginning,” cassandra responds, “of course we knew right away that he was a mage, but we both knew the extent of his _issues_ after he closed the first breach. his magic tried to kill him back in haven many times and it became my--and solas’s--duty to disarm him before it went out of control.”

“why didn’t you put him through the rite of tranquility?” 

“i...won’t lie that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” cassandra says, her frown deepening. “solas has argued against it but i am not entirely convinced. in the end solas was afraid the mark would be lost if he were made tranquil, which would be worse then whatever horrors naz summons.”

“and he's yet to do so.” solas says, strangely defensive given his opinion on naz. “the only misery his magic has caused is his own.”

“you have just _witnessed_ it hurting others,” cassandra snaps back, with a sharp gesture in bull’s direction.

bull starts. “this is an ongoing discussion.”

cassandra and solas share a heated look that has bile rising in bull’s throat, and he has to fight the urge to stand between them and naz. 

“we have agreed to monitor the situation. i have been dispelling the inquisitor’s magic before it can get dangerous--so has solas. it is a temporary fix and a _bad_ one, should solas or i ever be indisposed.” cassandra says, her eyes flitting away from solas to scan naz over, as if he was seconds away from turning into an abomination.

“...so what now?” bull asks, and hates the way his voice trembles traitorously.

cassandra fits him with a stare that might have been sympathetic. 

“we don’t know.” 

“leave.” bull says, “i’ll watch him.”

cassandra looks like she might protest for a moment, but something gives, and she relents with a nod, “do not let him leave this room.” 

eventually, everyone slowly escapes the room; cassandra is the first to go, muttering something about speaking to the advisors. then the healers peter away nervously, with nothing left to do after fixing the rest of the damage to naz and bull’s chest and arms. and then finally it’s just bull, solas, and naz’s unconscious body.

"contrary to what you or naz might think," solas says softly, "i do care for his well being, and i will not see him turned into something so meaningless as a tranquil for nothing."

solas stares at naz for a long while in silence, and then without another word, he stands and leaves as well. 

bull doesn’t know how long he sits there, the only sound comes from naz’s deep breaths, and the occasional whisper of wind from the open balcony. the light from outside creeps along the floor, as time passes in it’s slow crawl, until the sun retreats from the sky and the room is bathed in blue. then naz wakes up. 

he comes to quickly, with a shuddering gasp that sounds near painful; he jerks upright but instantly falls back against the pillows with a hiss of pain. bull watches carefully, hyper aware of the emotions that flit across naz’s face; confusion, realization, sadness, fear, pain, then nothing. 

bull moves slowly, reaching for the water glass left on the table behind him. predictably, naz flinches as if struck, but he relaxes slightly once he sees it’s bull, and he wordlessly accepts the water, gulping it down quickly. 

“‘m sorry.” naz’s voice cracks through the silence like a blackpowder barrel exploding, rasping and too much in the quiet pulled around them. 

“was it always this bad?” bull asks, wincing at his tone but he can’t help the way it sounds like an interrogation and the questions just pour out of him unbidden. “were you hurting yourself all those times you helped us? the archdemon? the wyvern? hell, even healing my arm?”

naz’s expression goes from carefully void to pained, and he doesn’t say anything for a long moment. 

“not always but yes...” he croaks finally.

“you promised naz, you know i won’t be whatever punishment you think you deserve.”

“no, no, that’s not it. and the last one felt _different_.”

“different how?”

“i liked it.” 

and well, bull, still thrumming with the residual terror and frost, really doesn’t know what to do with that statement. 

“will you talk to me about it someday?” bull asks, he shuffles a little closer, silently offering comfort. “you don’t have to now, or ever if you don’t want to. but i’d like to know. i want to know you.”

naz stutters with his whole body, shuttering like a badly controlled puppet. tentatively, he curls his fingers loosely around bull’s, they’re shockingly cold and bull fights his flinch down, along with the urge to clasp those hands in his own, to breathe some warmth back into him. 

“have they decided if they’re going to kill me yet?” naz asks quietly. he leans further into bull’s space, then seems to think better of it, and pulls himself away, curling into a tight ball above his bedsheets, leaving bull’s hand even colder then ever. 

“cassandra isn’t going to kill you.” bull says firmly.

“mhm.”

naz nods again vaguely, like he’s not really listening. his eyes burn holes in the bundle across the room, rewrapped hastily but bull knows what lies inside the paper. 

“it’s theirs.” naz says, his voice hoarse.

“we’ll find them.” bull promises, and he wants to touch so badly, to bring naz out from where he was collapsing inward, “the ones who did it, and your family.” 

“what does it matter, they’re dead.” naz says, and he looks at bull with the wrath of twenty suns, such endless agony and despair that it knocks the wind out of him. it lasts for nothing more then a split second before it’s completely swallowed by heartbreak, and naz shakes his head as if coming out of a daze. 

“it’s not your fault, bull.” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost in the air between them. “there was never a happy ending in sight for us.”

“you don’t know that.” bull argues, and it comes out as a snap. 

“don’t i?” naz shoots back, icily scathing. 

bull doesn’t falter, “you’re letting your stubbornness win over reason.”

“what do you care? they didn’t mean anything to you.” naz chokes and winces at his own words. he opens his mouth as if to take them back, “sorry, that was...”

“no, now isn’t the time for this,” bull sighs, “may i?”

he inches up the bed, holding his arms open wide. though he looks as if he wants to do nothing more then fall into bull’s embrace, naz shrinks further into himself.

“i could hurt you.” naz says. 

“you could, you have, and you will.” bull shrugs, “but we’re both still here.”

“but i don’t _want_ it to be like that, i don’t want to live on edge like this.” naz snaps, struggling to stand on his knees with his prosthetic catching on the sheets under him. he speaks with anger leading his words, though his eyes are brimming with tears that refuse to fall. “i want to exist without agony as a constant, i want you to be here with me without breaking and i want the world to be okay.” 

“then make it happen,” bull says, ignoring the disbelieving noise he gets in response. he untangles naz’s tightly wound body, cradling his face as gently as bull dares in his hands so the man looks at him. 

and look he does; staring in that way bull has grown so very fond of. through the pain there is a flash of wonder or disbelief, or a mix of the two. 

“you’ve made it this far, you will not break.” 

something twists on naz's face, nasty and painful-- _doubt._

this close he can see the vast plains of a scar on his nose, the valley where flesh had once been cleft clean. he can see the depths of those dark circles under his eyes, and the blood drying under his nose and above his temple, peeking out from the gauze. this close he can pinpoint the exact moment naz retreats; the exact second he stops, and closes over and bull knows he’s lost. 

naz smiles, small yet full of teeth, and there is nothing behind his eyes as he lies, “okay, i believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might be taking an extra week to get the next chapter up, depending on how demanding my work is !
> 
> edit (5/31): this is on a shortish hiatus while i work another project out of my system, ill see yall in june!

**Author's Note:**

> updates may be hectic! this is a side project for me, just something fun to do.
> 
> (also hit me up if you find mistakes, im dyslexic as fuck)
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ godshaper


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